Sparkle and Fade
by Spark Writer
Summary: This is the story of Skye Penderwick's lifetime, told in moments.
1. Chapter 1

_(A/N): I am forcing myself to publish this, otherwise it would languish forever in my Word files and wither forlornly away. This piece has been formatted as a series of sequential vignettes. While other characters will make regular appearances, we will focus most heavily upon Skye. __Feedback is, as always, welcome. I'm genuinely interested in, and appreciate hearing about, your experience as a reader._

___This is the story of Skye Penderwick's lifetime told in moments._

_I hope you enjoy it._

...

...

Steam swirls from beneath the closed bathroom door. Jane has been in the tub for twelve and half minutes and Skye is growing aggravated, tapping her foot upon the carpet with hummingbird impatience.

She checks the clock on the wall, eyes swinging upward to track the slothful passage of time, and looks back at the bathroom door. The steam is coming faster now, filling the hallway with tendrils of vapor that make her hair cling to her forehead.

She twists her arms across her chest and scowls, because why does Jane always have to be so slow, why can't she just shampoo her hair and be done with it, why does she have to sit in the tub each night and make up stories about far-flung universes that only exist in her own head?

Skye calls Jane's name and there is no response, so she calls again, louder, verging on a yell, and still there is no answer and it occurs to her that the cheery splashing of water stopped a while ago and suddenly her heart is pounding and she is flying to the door and shouldering it open and stumbling over the threshold into a cloud of fragrant mist so thick she can't breathe and running to the bathtub and crying out, because Jane's face is pressed to the tub's enamel and she is completely submerged—

"Jane—!"

Skye wonders if she will have to do CPR, something she read about once on a pamphlet in the pediatricians office. She plunges her arms into the cooling bathwater and grabs Jane around the waist, wrestling with the slippery expanse of skin as she drags her over the edge of the tub and plunks her clumsily on the rug.

For a moment, Jane looks utterly insensible. Then she jolts to life with a strangled gasp and rolls onto her side, coughing so hard she vomits.

The smothering horror eases, only to be replaced by molten fury.

Skye is livid, unaware the screams echoing off blue and yellow tiles are her own.

"What were you doing underwater like that? You could have drowned! What's wrong with you?"

Jane struggles upright and Skye throws her a towel. "I'm supposed to watch you while everyone else is at Tommy's! How do you think it would have looked if you'd died?"

Jane wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She blinks her brown, bloodshot eyes and mutters something Skye can't make out in a voice scratchy from retching.

"What?"

"I wanted to see if staying underwater long enough would turn me into a mermaid."

Oh.

Oh no.

Skye wants to _punch_ her, strangle her, rip that hopeful look right of her interminably stupid face, because how could anyone be such an _idiot_?

She plucks one of Jane's plastic princess dolls from the floor and hurls it at the wall with an overhand that would have put Babe Ruth to shame.

"Don't do this again," she says, the words ripped from her in a fearsome growl. "Not ever."

Then she hauls Jane to her feet and they hobble down the hall and into their room, trembling and breathing funny and more terrified than either of them care to admit. It's the first time Skye has ever saved a life.

She is seven years old.


	2. Chapter 2

_(A/N): Just to note-these scenes take place over a four year period. Thank you for the positive response so far! Reviews are glimmering nebulae in my night sky. :)_

_..._

_..._

The Penderwicks are coasting through drowsy summer heat on a fleet of scarlet bicycles. Baby Batty has been strapped carefully into a plastic seat behind Mr. Penderwicks. Her giggles tumble around them like so many glowing asteroids.

It's a good day. Well, not good…closer to normal than usual.

Skye is about to challenge Jane to a race when her bicycle hits a dip in the road and she goes flying, whirling, tipping end over end until she can't tell up from down.

When she comes to a stop, her ribs ache and the metallic tang of blood pulses in her mouth.

Rats.

Her vision has gone fuzzy around the edges, shivering like a mirage. Rosalind says something to her but it sounds garbled and hollow and is nothing she can make sense of.

She rolls onto her back and blinks at the sun, a blazing white whole in the bleached blue of the sky.

"Skye."

Her head is beginning to throb.

"Skye!"

Birds circle overhead.

"_Skye_!"

Breathing is painful, like filling a balloon with more helium than it should contain. She has to remind herself to do it; in out in out in out in out, and then she starts to forget what order she's supposed to be going in, and starts breathing in in out in out out out in out in in out in out out out out out—

The world goes dark.

When Skye opens her eyes next, she's laying on an uncomfortably hard bed and a gray eyed woman is standing over her with a scrutinizing expression.

"No concussion," she says, and someone out of sight heaves a sigh of relief.

Skye untangles her hand from low thread-count sheets and brushes it against her aching forehead. The bandage is rough beneath her fingers, like canvas.

The woman tells her she'll be lucky not to have a scar.

**...**

Somehow Jane and Batty have managed to balance a rolled up towel on Hound's shaggy head. It looks like a terry-cloth turban, wobbling with every movement he makes. It's the most inanely ridiculous thing Skye's ever seen.

Her sisters seem to find it comedic gold.

Mr. Penderwick pokes his head around the door-frame and sees his two youngest daughters giggling and bowing before Hound on bended knees.

"Oh, Hound, you are the most majestic of all canine royalty," sings Jane, pink-faced from suppressed mirth. She produces a feather boa seemingly out of thin air and coils it around her neck, sweeping one end over her shoulder with utmost attitude. "Your eyes are infinite tarns of beauty, your teeth glisten like porcelain—"

The pillow broadsides Jane just where Skye wanted it.

Martin lunges, catching Skye by the arm to keep her from falling to the floor in laughter.

**...**

Sometimes Skye thinks about the fact that her mother is dead. Truly and completely. A decaying corpse in an earthy grave.

And she wants to fall.

She wants to find that line where land ends and emptiness begins and let her weight tip her over the edge and fall fall fall fall until she hits solid ground and breaks into too many shards to ever be whole again.

**...**

Skye plays soccer. She wrestles with mathematic equations far beyond her years. She wears her lucky camouflage hat. She develops an infatuation with a boy named Tyler and dismisses it; she knows it's just a mixture of adrenaline and oxytocine making her blush and blunder, because Tyler's an imbecile. She ignores it. Eventually, the ridiculous feelings stop.

**...**

"Skye, we're going to miss graduation!"

"So what? Fifth grade is hardly the graduation that matters."

"You're going into middle school!"

"Switching schools shouldn't merit a ceremony. Besides, I look like an idiot in this dress."

"You picked it out." Jane frowns as she scuttles down the empty, locker-lined corridor after Skye. Their footsteps sound too loud in the heavy silence, reminding Skye of the fact that they are the only two people who aren't outside among the jabbering students and rows of folding chairs.

"Daddy's going to wonder where we are. So is Mr. Sanders. We might get a detention—"

"No one's getting detention," snaps Skye. "The school year is over. The worst teachers can do to us is give us a lecture, which, technically speaking, isn't their place now that it's summer."

She picks up speed, striding past a row of gaudy third grade art projects and whizzing past the closed door of the nurse's office.

"Slow down!" Jane's voice has taken on a decidedly whiny tone and Skye regrets ever asking her sister to accompany her on this venture.

"I told you not to wear those stupid shoes."

"They're not stupid," hisses Jane, ankles wobbling as she struggles to keep up. "I think they make me look mature."

Skye snorts and Jane smacks her with the back of her hand.

"Ow! Are you wearing a ring?" Skye rubs the swelling knot on the back of her skull, scowling.

"Kaitlin Delahaney let me borrow it. I would say sorry, but you're making us late for our own graduation, so…"

"Oh, shut up."

They round a corner and walk smack dab into Pearson. He stumbles backward and grabs hold of a nearby garbage can to keep from toppling over.

"What are you doing?" asks Skye, wrenching the cotton strap of her dress back into place. The last thing she needs is Pearson mucking up her plans.

"I—I didn't—" He's stammering and stuttering and making Skye want to punch him in his very stupid face. "Bathroom," he says eventually. "I drank a lot of water at breakfast."

"That's more than I needed to know." She wrinkles her nose and Jane turns her giggle into a terribly unconvincing cough.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It doesn't matter," says Skye. "Go back outside. Just don't tell anyone where we are."

"Yeah, of course not."

But Pearson doesn't move. He just stands there staring at her as though she hung the very stars herself and brought one down for him. Eventually Skye grabs him by the upper arms and swings him aside like an ineffectual door, pushing roughly past.

"See you. Come _on_, Jane!"

They have only made it two yards when Pearson calls out.

"Wait—where are you going?"

Jane opens her mouth to answer but Skye silences her with a glare. "That's none of your business."

"Skye, we're in the same class and it looks like you're purposely trying to miss graduation. It kind of is my business."

"No, you're just being a snoop. As usual."

Pearson folds his arms over his lilac button down, looking affronted. "I just want to know where you're going."

"It's a secret and I'm not telling you."

"Fine. If you won't tell, then you'll have to kiss me."

The hallway goes so silent it hurts.

"Excuse me?" Skye can feel her blood beginning to boil. Her arms hang stiffly at her sides, fists clenched, and her chest is tight with the first whispers of rage. "Are you insane?"

"No," says Pearson, in a tone that suggests he is a genius in every way.

"I'm not going to kiss you."

"You are if you don't want to get in trouble."

"This is blackmail."

"Is not."

"Is too!"

Jane squeezes Skye's wrist in a death grip. "Ignore him," she mutters.

But Skye can't ignore him. He'll tell on her and everything will collapse. She meets his eyes, swallowing the sparse amount of saliva she can still manage to make. Suddenly she's a gladiator staring down her opponent in the center of a vast arena, and she will fight to the death to ensure her victory.

It takes her five steps to reach him. He's just barely taller than she is, looking down with eyes framed by a halo of dark lashes.

"I hate you," she says. Then she grabs him by the lapels of his shirt and kisses him, hard and rough and furious.

When they break apart, Pearson looks thoroughly flabbergasted, but not as flabbergasted as he does when Skye punches him in the nose.

"Ahh!" His hands fly to his face, cupping the afflicted area as tears begin to stream from the corners of his eyes.

"Serves you right for being such a creep."

Pearson stares at her for a few beats, then turns tail and sprints in the opposite direction, moving so fast he doesn't even notice when his plastic corsage flies off and rolls to a stop at Jane's feet.

It's catastrophically unfair. Skye held up her end of the deal, but he tells on her anyway, and she doesn't get to prank Melissa Patenaude that year after all.

**...**

Reckless. Skye is reckless.

She has always been drawn toward danger, excitement, and adrenaline with an insatiable kind of lust. Since she was small, she's longed for the white-hot scorch of exhilaration to burn her up from the inside out, reducing her to a pile of ash that can be scattered to the wind at will. Maybe it is a silly wish, but it stays with her, chasing her through childhood like a tireless shadow. Her sharp tongue and acerbic obstinacy do a fair job of hiding this desire until the summer of her eleventh year, because that's when something happens, something that rouses the brash urge, something huge.

Because Skye collides headlong with a boy in a hedge and _ah_, there it is, that wild thing living inside of her rib cage, ripping its way out at last and unfurling in the light.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeffrey Tifton makes Skye feel sort of like she's falling up. Except you cannot fall up. She knows this. She knows about physics and Newton's apples and gravitational laws. There are no exceptions to the rules of science, not even when you're making stupid metaphors that are sadly necessary for expressing the superb.

Still.

They are always together that summer; an indelible plural. Going on mad adventures and getting themselves into trouble like it's an art form. And in the moments when something goes wrong and they just know all hell is about to break loose, they find each other's gaze and laugh and laugh until they're breathless, dizzy, heads spinning with the height, the adrenaline, the impossible light everywhere.

It's like flying. But more.

**...**

"It's for you," says Mr. Penderwick, weaving between inconveniently placed stacks of books to hand Skye the telephone.

She lifts it to her ear, smiling because she can hear the faint whisper of breath on the other end.

"Hello," she murmurs, unable to keep the joy out of her voice.

"Skye!"

"Took you long enough to get around to calling."

"Mother's been dragging me out to get school supplies all week. I've a barely had a minute to myself. I'm sorry."

Even over miles of phone line he sounds remorseful.

"It's alright."

"How are you?"

"Fine, I guess. Jane's been bothering me all day."

"Oh?"

"She wants me to read the latest draft of something."

"But you don't want to."

"Obviously."

"Obviously."

"And Rosy's been fiddling with her hair all day, trying to decide whether or not she should get it cut, and Batty's been hiding Funty in random places and making Hound go on scavenger hunts, and for some reason everyone is being extremely stupid today."

Jeffrey laughs, a wistful little sound that make's Skye's heart clench in spite of itself.

"And Daddy's been listening to far too much opera." She holds the phone aloft so Jeffrey can hear the melancholy strains of an aria drifting from her father's study.

"Oh. Do you think he's feeling sad about your mother?"

"He has to be."

"I'm sorry." Jeffrey is always apologizing, always, even though none of it is ever remotely his fault.

"I know," says Skye. "Thanks."

"Of course."

There is a scuffle on Jeffrey's end; voices, laughter, someone telling someone else to stop sneaking chocolate chips straight out of the bag.

"Churchie says hello." Jeffrey chuckles. "She's making chocolate pumpkin muffins and they smell—" He raises his voice. _"Absolutely divine!"_

Skye grins. "Tell me what they smell like."

"Okay, but you have to close your eyes."

She does.

"Eyes shut?"

"Yep."

"Good. Now imagine the most perfect fall day—sunshine, red and yellow leaves, grass crunching everytime you take a step. Can you see it?"

"I can." Skye's eyes are screwed up and she's laying on her bed in the dark as the moon rises and paints a silver streak up the wall.

"And imagine someone is hugging you so hard it hurts."

"I am."

"That's what they smell like."

"Muffins that smell of autumn and hugs. Hmm. Churchie must be some cook."

"In the figurative sense, Skye," chides Jeffrey, "in the figurative sense." But he is laughing too much to sound angry.

"You're an idiot."

"Well you don't have a poetic bone in your body."

"Apparently not."

"Apparently I should be talking to Jane."

"No. Variety is the spice of life."

"You think so?"

"Am I ever wrong?"

"Stop answering my questions with questions."

"Why?"

Jeffrey heaves a sigh and Skye smirks.

"You're such a walnut."

She gives a squawk of reproach. "A _walnut?"_

"Yes."

She doesn't know whether to be offended or amused. "How exactly am I a walnut?"

"I dunno. But you are."

"Then you're a turnip," Skye says with a terminal 'p.'

"Shots fired."

They laugh.

"Jeffrey?"

"Mm?"

"You should visit Gardam Street sometime."

"I should."

"Will you?"

"I hope so."

"Me too."

Skye looks up at the ceiling, blinking in the frail light of a thousand glow in the dark constellations.

"It's getting late," Jeffrey murmurs.

"It's only ten thirty."

"Mother will want me out of bed at some inhumane hour tomorrow morning. It's in my best interest that I get some sleep."

"If you insist." Skye rolls onto her side, molding the bed sheets into sloping peaks.

"I'll call later."

"Good."

"Night, Skye."

"Night, Jeffrey."

"Talk to you soon."

Neither of them acknowledges if they wait to hang up a little longer than necessary.


	4. Chapter 4

Skye emerges from the Quigley woods at a light jog. Twigs snap beneath her feet and wind blows fallen leaves around in a dizzy waltz. If she doesn't hurry she won't make it back to the house before the heavy clouds overhead give way to torrential rain.

But it seems luck is not on her side, because her left sneaker decides to come unlaced and she has to stoop to retie it, and suddenly the first drops are rushing down and plunking in the dirt and she's going to get soaked, she knows it.

Skye gets to her feet and breaks into a run. She has almost reached the base of her driveway when she bumps into Iantha, the new neighbor woman with the red-headed little boy. They've only met once, but this is no less of a mortifying blunder than the first time.

Skye disentangles herself, grimacing remorsefully when she sees the mud she spattered on the cuff of Iantha's jeans.

"That's alright," says Iantha, following Skye's gaze. "It was time for a new pair, anyway."

Skye stares at her, not sure if she should attempt polite small talk or simply side-step her neighbor to avoid further embarrassment. It is raining, after all. A car barrels past, plowing through a fresh puddle and dousing them both with dingy water. Skye glares at its license plate, memorizing it as though she will have to identify the driver in a police lineup later on. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, tasting motor oil and mud.

She looks back at Iantha, flushing under the watchful stare of those large, startled eyes.

"I wish I had some sort of beautiful metaphor for the rain. Something about renewal and new beginnings." Iantha frowns. "But all I can think of is what my mother told me when I was a little girl—that rain is just angels sweating."

Skye laughs, more out of surprise than amusement. She doesn't know anyone else who would say such endearingly awkward things and she finds her chest tightening with a sudden wash of affection.

She tries not to let it show on her face, but the corners of her mouth turn up anyway in what she suspects is a rather stupid grin.

Iantha looks at her for a moment, scraping her teeth along her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she says. "That was weird, wasn't it?"

"No." Skye laughs again, real and happy this time. "It was actually really funny."

"Oh." Iantha blinks. "That's…good. Sometimes I—well, I'm not too good at—it's just—" She breaks off, looking vexed.

"You can't talk to people?" Skye offers, not wishing to offend.

"I—no."

"Neither can I, if that makes you feel any better. Most people hate me five minutes after we've been introduced."

"I'm sure that's not true, Skye. You're a very nice person."

"I offend everyone."

"You value honesty. The right people won't be put off by that."

Skye immediately thinks of Jeffrey and the hedge and the burnt cookies and the yelling and the fact that he has become her dearest friend anyway, and smiles, because Iantha has a point.

"Thanks." She means it.

"Of course." Iantha rocks forward on the balls of her feet. "Would you like to come inside? I'm just about to pop sugar cookies in the oven."

"I have a lot of homework…" Skye looks toward the house, feeling a slight pluck of longing as she stares at the amber glow shining from each window.

"Ah, completely understandable. Another time." Iantha waves and moves away, trotting back up her driveway.

Skye is soaking wet and considerably cold, but she stands on the pavement, watching her Iantha until she reaches her house and disappears inside.

That's the day Skye really begins to like her new neighbor; social ineptitude, frightened eyes and all.

...

_Review?_


	5. Chapter 5

When Batty catches pneumonia, Rosalind fusses over her; fixing and worrying and pacing like some kind of restless guardian angel.

"She'll be fine," Skye tells her. "The doctors gave her antibiotics."

Rosalind turns on Skye with a vicious expression and tells her to _get out._

Skye doesn't understand. Except perhaps she does. Perhaps Rosalind is remembering someone else, someone who couldn't be saved...

"I'm sorry," she murmurs into the slim crevice between the door and the wall. "Please let me back in."

Silence.

Skye falls asleep propped against the wall like a sorry rag doll. In the morning, her chest aches worse than her back.

**...**

"Hello, Martin. What's the trouble?"

His car keys fall from limp fingers and hit the ground with a muffled clink.

Skye dives for them, which is not easy to do when your hands are trembling like a sick animal and you feel as though you're on the precipice of a vast fall.

Will it work? Will their efforts prove successful?

Rosalind gives a little cough. "Daddy, is it true that the car won't start?"

"No. I mean yes." He blushes helpfully, a startling wash of pink around the neck and ears. "The girls tell me it could be a computer glitch."

"Ah, a computer glitch." Iantha swallows, going equally rosy under the intensity of his gaze.

"Iantha," says Batty, without missing a beat, "could you take Daddy in your car?"

And there—ah! Their father is holding his arm out to Iantha, who is taking it, and my goodness, is there _anything_ more beautiful than a tipping point?

The sisters meet eyes and their hearts leap off the edge.

**...**

There's an aura of almost impossible happiness at the wedding.

Guests sitting in Iantha's backyard dab at damp saltwater smudges beneath their eyes; smiling at the vows, sighing when Mr. Penderwick kisses Iantha so hard his glasses tumble off, chuckling when Hound barks his approval and devours Batty's yellow rose.

"It's beautiful," Jane says, sidling up to Skye after the ceremony. People swirl around them, clutching champagne glasses and beaming at the newlywed couple. "And you remembered your speech."

"In a stunning turn of events." Skye looks down at Jane and they beam at each other. "But next time we go to a wedding I'm not letting you stand next to me. You sniffled in my ear the entire time."

"I was touched!" Jane protests and Skye bites back a smile.

Jane wanders off to speak to a few distant cousins, leaving Skye alone amidst the blur of activity. She revolves on the spot, absorbing the joyful tableau into her memory for later use. There are fairy lights wrapped around the trees that stretch up over the fence, glowing against the dusk-darkening sky. Hound prances among the guests, pleased and proud in his yellow ribbon. Rosalind and Tommy are talking to one of Nick's old friends, a stout young man with black hair and square-rimmed glasses. Batty is playing with Ben, the pair of them spinning giddily in an unoccupied patch of lawn; arms thrown out, mouths stretched open to taste the breeze, giggles shivering in the air. Her father and Iantha are greeting the guests together, an arm curled tentatively around the other's waist as though unsure whether this is real, whether they have just gotten married or not.

It is real. Shockingly, beautifully, stupendously.

The speakers crackle as someone presses the power button, and then there is music; quirky, folksy, and invigorating.

"Clear the chairs," Mr. Penderwick commands and everyone laughs.

Jane, of course, is the first one onto the newly cleared stretch of grass. She begins to dance, flailing her arms with uninhibited delight, bouncing and twirling in a way that makes her skirt fly.

Rosalind is next, pulling Tommy with her. Iantha scoops Ben into her arms and spins him around. Martin joins her, smiling not with his mouth but with his eyes.

The guests take this as their cue to start dancing, and they do. Brightly and happily. Like so many lightning bugs spiraling through the atmosphere after rain.

Skye doesn't dance. She is clumsy and awkward, as demonstrated when Jeffrey tried to teach her to waltz at Arundel. She would be perfectly content to remain on the fringes, watching, if it were not for a sudden warmth at her side and a voice in her ear—

"May I have this dance?"

"Yes, you idiot."

"Walnut." Jeffrey winks and beckons her after him.

"Turnip." Skye follows, only smiling to herself when she knows he won't see.

They thread through the thrumming mass of people, finding an empty spot and planting themselves there as they begin to lose themselves to the song.

The lyrics are extraordinarily fitting. Almost like an anthem, a requiem for the Penderwicks.

_Home…let me go home…home is wherever I'm with you…_

Skye feels vaguely breathless, and she blames Jeffrey in that suit, his smile wide and warm over a navy tie.

Maybe they talk, maybe they don't.

All she remembers is the way she and Jeffrey shift and sway with the rhythm; hesitance fading in favor of something more certain.

And, as ridiculous as it sounds, the rest of the world does fade away, disintegrating in comparison to the brilliance.

...

_(A/N): Well. That was far more difficult to write than it should have been. I'd love to hear what you think. Is this fic working or not?_


	6. Chapter 6

Shortly after Skye's fourteenth birthday, she has her second kiss.

The most popular boy at soccer camp approaches after she makes the winning goal and takes her head in his hands, tilting her face toward his and pressing their lips together. He is clumsy, fingers tangling in her hair as he traps her in a rough kiss.

Skye presses her palms against his shoulders and shoves him back, glaring up with narrowed cornflower eyes.

"Stop," she says, voice low and threatening.

"Why?"

"Because you're decimating my personal boundaries and being a complete jerk."

"Oh, right. I forgot. You don't have hormones. You're perfect."

"Wrong," says Skye. "I'm just not attracted to people with such fragile egos."

He squints at her, his thin face sunburned and pocked with freckles. "Whatever, Penderwick. Your loss."

Skye laughs without humor. "Yeah. Keep telling yourself that."

He storms away and leaves her standing there on the field, pinioned in the harsh stares of all the girls who would give anything to be in her place.

**...**

Days, weeks, and months slip by, a depressing side effect of time and being caught in a perpetual revolution around the Sun.

Ben loses his plump cheeks. Batty gets frequent visits from the tooth fairy. Jane experiences a brief and penetrating infatuation with a British actor. Skye outgrows her black tee shirts. Rosalind starts talking about the SAT's.

Life marches on, and they are captive to its tempo.

**...**

"You turned down how many boys?" asks Jane, her eyes fairly popping out of her head.

"Seven." Skye takes a bite of her pizza, scowling at Jane's look of astonishment. "What?"

"Well, most girls would do whatever it takes to get a date to the Snow Ball and here you are with an abundance of potential guys and you tell them all no."

"Dances are puerile. So is dating. You're the romantic, not me."

"So you're not going?"

"Of course I'm not going. I'll probably be at home, filling in my new color-by-number periodic table. There may be a little calculus on the side."

"That'll make Melissa's day."

"What will?"

"You not being there to steal the spotlight."

"No…" Skye scoffs. "That's a thing of the past."

"Ah." Jane looks at Skye over the violet rims of her faux reading glasses. "There's where you're mistaken."

Skye nibbles at the crust of her mushroom and sausage slice, fixing Jane with a baffled stare. "There is no reason for anyone to be jealous of me. Name one."

"You're a fantastic athlete and super smart and well—" Jane gives her a hasty once over. "You're not fairing too badly in the looks department, either."

"Please. Our waiter has been waiting desperately to give you his number for the past half hour. Look at him." Skye jerks her chin in his direction. "He's _rapt_. Practically drooling."

"That's because I winked at him when we walked in."

"And _that's_ because you're a relentless flirt."

"Maaaaybe." Jane laughs and twists her hair around her finger. "Just—have pity on Melissa. She's what I like to call a lesser mortal."

"I don't care about Melissa. She can have all the boys she wants."

"Even Jeffrey?"

The question blindsides Skye. Her pulse quickens and there is a sudden glowing pressure in her chest. There's no denying that the concept of Jeffrey and Melissa being together bothers her, but she blames the abrupt stab of possessiveness on the fact that Jeffrey is her best friend. There is always the possibility that he would meet Melissa, enjoy her company, and essentially leave Skye in the dust. That would be the end of their friendship; an unbearable thought. So, is this the true basis of her reaction? An envy stemming from the feeling of friendship?

Surely, she isn't _attracted_ to Jeffrey.

But Skye knows she would be lying if she claims never to have indulged in a few more than platonic sentiments involving her friend. She doesn't even know why she would find Jeffrey appealing in that way. She doesn't find anyone appealing in that way.

Jeffrey is ordinary; polite and good-natured and genial, with only a few flashes of a darker temperament beneath. There is nothing exceedingly remarkable about him, and yet…

Skye falters, desperately trying to pinpoint the source of her fascination. There is something there, something in those moments when Jeffrey laughs where others would balk, tells the truth when others would lie, and is simultaneously unflinchingly stubborn and nauseatingly kind. He is, for lack of a better word, impossible. And this doesn't bring her any nearer to understanding the meaning of the sure, magnetic pull that has tugged at her for years.

Rats.

Skye hopes none of this shows on her face, because Jane is scrutinizing her with a sly expression, making her feel horribly exposed. She clears her throat.

"I would be fine with that. If Jeffrey was so inclined," she adds.

Jane raises an eyebrow, looking at Skye as if to say _that's because you know he would never choose Melissa. Not when there's you._

But Skye isn't sure if she reads that last part in Jane's expression or not.

...

_(A/N): Thank you so much for all the feedback, my dears. You make this worthwhile. _


	7. Chapter 7

_(A/N): **Applesandbananas**, Please do not worry about the anon reviewer. I've come across so much verbal abuse during my time on the internet that it didn't even phase me, aside from the fact that it is obviously cowardly and unnecessary. I know you are well-meaning and would never do such a thing, and I'm very sorry you were framed. Maybe you'll consider getting an account of your own? Not just because of this kind of situation, but also because so many of us would love to be able to freely PM such a lovely person. :) Don't feel bad about any of this. You are not the problem._

...

...

A stuffed llama, several pairs of shin guards, some tattered papers, a baseball cap, three crayons [cornflower, saffron, jade], a sandwich bag full of scavenged pebbles, a shriveled grape stem, a collection of Mrs. Frizzle books—

The box is full when Skye finishes.

She pushes it into the hall and stares and stares and _stares_ at the discarded possessions until her stomach goes quivery and she can't breathe right.

There is nothing sweet about nostalgia.

**...**

"I should never have offered to teach you to drive," says Rosalind, gripping the dashboard with clenched fingers.

Skye rolls her eyes and eases down on the accelerator, moving along Gardam Street at a snail's pace.

"You're going to hit a deer," Jane says from her spot in the backseat. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and chews pensively, forehead creased down the middle.

"Shut up, Jane. We're barely moving."

"Maybe if it was a three-legged deer," Batty pipes helpfully. "With cataracts."

"Batty—" Skye flashes her a warning glare in the rear-view mirror.

Just then an SUV pull onto the street, its silver topcoat iridescent in the afternoon sun.

"Move left!" Rosalind cries.

Skye gazes blankly at her. "What?"

"There's a car coming! Pull over that way."

Rosalind thrusts her index finger in the direction of the Geiger's petunias, giving a growl of frustration when Skye doesn't respond. She unbuckles her seat-belt, lunges across the front seat, and grabs hold of the sweat moistened steering wheel in rapid succession, commanding Skye to operate the accelerator as she turns the wheel.

The car screeches and grinds in protest, but they manage to move it out of the center of the road before the SUV catches up.

They scrape to a halt beside the curb.

Rosalind turns the key in the ignition and the engine falls silent. The sisters sit in perfect stillness until Skye turns to Rosalind with fire in her eyes and demands to know why she hasn't been taught how to _turn_.

Rosalind tries to answer, but she can't really speak around the sudden roaring laughter ripping its way out of her throat.

Skye pummels her sister's arm in half-feigned outrage but gives up the act after three heartbeats and laughs too, the sound growing as she tilts her head back against the nylon headrest and closes her eyes.

Batty and Jane collapse against each other, giggling too hard to maintain control of their limbs.

Eventually, the chuckles die and Skye sighs down the last of her amusement. She twists around to face her sisters. "That was absurd."

"I know," Rosalind murmurs, wiping her eyes.

"Thanks for rescuing me."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last." Rosy peers at her with fond irritation, if such a thing exists. "You really should have listened to Iantha when she recommended Driver's Ed."

This strikes Skye as insanely funny.

"I'm serious!"

"Yes, I know that. I just—"

"Stop smirking."

"I'm not."

"You are!"

"You look like Dexter Dupree," Jane crows and Skye lobs a castoff tortilla chip in her direction.

"Alright, alright!" She folds her arms. "I'll see about signing up."

**...**

"I have a concert in March," Jeffrey tells her. "You should come."

"I will."

And she does.


	8. Chapter 8

As it happens, Skye is the only one to make it to Jeffrey's concert. Ben and Batty come down with a severe case of the flu, so Iantha and Mr. Penderwick must stay home, woefully instructing Skye to give Jeffrey their very best. Rosalind is away at college, struggling through a boat load of exams. Jane nearly comes, but Martin finds out about an extra credit biology project she is supposed to complete and insists that she stay and follow through.

Jane sulks and stews and sniffles over the conundrum, but their father refuses to let her leave her partner to his own devices—

_You gave him your word!_

_Daddy, I can't miss one of Jeffrey's concerts. It means too much!_

_I'm sorry, Jane-o. I know this is difficult._

_No, you don't!_

_I can't go, either._

_That's different._

_It's not. Just because adults make sacrifices doesn't mean they enjoy doing so._

_You _have_ to stay home and take care of Batty and Ben. I actually have a choice._

_You promised you would work on this project with Henry. It's not up to you to abandon him on a whim._

_Daddy, it's—_

_This is part of becoming an adult, Jane._

_I hate it._

_I know, but growing up is seeing if you're the kind of person who has flexible morals or not._

_Well, I— I don't think I do. _

_I would agree with that._

_So, I guess I'm not going._

_I think that's an admirable decision._

Thus, Skye buys herself a roundtrip train ticket with money she saved from shoveling her neighbors' driveways, and tells Jeffrey she will be there if it kills her.

She's wearing a simple black dress when she arrives at his school, and her hair, which has gotten far too long and far too unruly, is pulled back into an artful knot at the base of her skull. A few blonde strands fall free of the hairband and settle around her face. She doesn't bother to brush them into submission.

There is already a stream of people moving steadily into the building, shoving the double doors wide enough to allow a scintillating pool of light to stream onto the lavish marble staircase. Judging by the abundance of cameras and congratulatory flower bouquets, Skye can only surmise that these people are mostly parents, proud and giddy in their affection. She wonders if Mrs. Tifton will be in the audience—and Dexter, god forbid. Much as they annoy her, she will be positively murderous if they aren't. Jeffrey deserves that much respect.

When they reach the entrance to the music hall, the crowd funnels hastily inside and a young usher checks Skye's ticket then leads her to her seat with a polite smile. She takes the proffered program—velvet tasseled and weighty—and flips through it, stopping at Jeffrey's name.

_Jeffrey Tifton (Pianist)…Serenade for the Storm_

She smiles. He must have composed it himself. He mentioned something a while back about seniors composing an original piece to perform in their final year. At seventeen, Jeffrey is nearly ready to graduate and take up residence at one of the many musical arts colleges he applied to and will surely be accepted at. He called Skye in the dead of night two months earlier to inform her that he had actually been recruited by Juilliard—a most impressive accomplishment.

It's quite obvious that he'll have no trouble finding a place to study. There is potential, so much potential.

Skye raises her eyes from the program as the lights begin to dim and the eager rustling in the audience dies away. The burgundy velvet curtains part, revealing a quartet of two violinists, a violist and a cellist, somber angels clad in black. The instruments in their hands seem alive in the spotlight, glowing warmly. Behind them sits a beautiful grand piano, gleaming obsidian and alabaster. The pianist is sitting stiffly atop the padded piano bench, somehow making it look like a throne. His verdigris eyes are fixed upon the conductor with electric concentration.

Skye can't help it; she grins, hiding it with one hand because she's afraid it will seem indecent in such a formal setting.

Fortunately, this is when the first violinist, a svelte girl with gingery curls, places her bow gently against the strings and gives a nod to her fellow musicians, and the first tentative, gentle chords make themselves known.

Skye never really listens to classical music, largely because she has little patience for the usual lethargic thrumming of base cellos and aggravating whine of soprano violins. Yet this is different. The muscians are not merely good, but downright outstanding. Every member of the string quartet is sure of themselves, each swipe of bow against strings creates a streak of glowing sound that dances in the dark. The music transports Skye, makes her feels as if she is a sparrow fluttering over lush treetops rejoicing in the simple fact of being alive.

Then summer ends and the piece gains a darker edge, howling softly at some unseen moon, reminding one of frost and ice and wind. The audience gives up all pretense and leans forward in collective awe, as though lessening the physical distance will somehow make them a part of it, of this, of the aching beauty.

But oh, it gets so much worse, because just then Jeffrey lifts his hands to the keys and joins the song, adding a sweet, bright melody that seems to languish far above the crust of the earth.

Skye is certain she's staring like a besotted fool, watching with helpless captivation and feeling her heart quiver and quake in time to the gorgeous, golden strokes of sound.

It will be the death of her.

Then comes the real prize, the piece which Jeffrey himself has written, and the quartet sits quietly down, turning to gaze at the pianist with watchful eyes. A roll of the shoulders, a soft exhale, a moment of pure, impeccable silence.

Then Jeffrey lowers his fingers to the keyboard and the piano gives its first mournful sigh.

In her seat, listening to the oscillating veils of sounds with barely parted lips, Skye has to close her eyes and clench her fingers into fists, because it's too much, the knowledge that Jeffrey has the power to create magic. She watches with wonder as the trembling hands of music have their way with her body and soul. And all the while the song deepens, becoming more and more demanding in its intensity, more demanding in its brilliancy; woeful triplets turning to shimmering harmonies, gentle legato to blazing trills of hope; until finally, a cry of unequivocal joy is flung into the subsequent silence.

And then.

_And then._

Skye gets to her feet and begins to applaud, the sound of her clapping mortifyingly frail in the stillness. She keeps going anyway, so full of reverence that if she doesn't do something to express it she will surely implode.

Jeffrey stands, blinking in the sharp glare of the spotlight, frowning out at the sea of faces at he tries to identify the source of the sound.

His eyes land unerringly on Skye. She winks. His gapes at her, cheeks flooding with color, while the rest of the audience joins her in a standing ovation. Then the conductor motions at Jeffrey and says something Skye can't make out. He nods and takes his seat, placing a new sheet of music before him.

At the conductor's orders, the quartet rises and concludes the concert with two pieces that blend seamlessly together. This time the music is something soft, tender, and unbearably sweet. Slowly the sky clears and _Serenade for the Storm _ends on a final chord, a fresh glimmer of sunlight after so much rain.

**...**

"You were amazing."

"Really?"

"Sublime."

Jeffrey takes her to a hole in the wall ice cream parlor and they order two banana splits, laughing when he spills hot fudge on his gray dress trousers and has to tie her sweatshirt around his waist for the remainder of the evening.

...

_(A/N): Sorry for the musical ramblings. I tried to keep my obsession at bay._


	9. Chapter 9

A month and a half later, Skye gets accepted at Columbia University. The first person she calls is Jeffrey.

**...**

"…Fantastic news! You'll fit right in with all those physics geeks."

"Shut up."

"I'm only kidding. You know I'm happy for you."

"Well, congratulations to you as well. Having Juilliard on your resume isn't too shabby."

"Sheer luck, that's all."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit."

A pause. Then—

"You do realize Columbia is twenty minutes from Juilliard?"

"Is it? I hadn't thought."

Jeffrey chuckles. "I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

"I guess so."

"There's a good Thai place halfway between our schools. I went there with Mother last month and we split the lemon curry. It was scrumptious."

"Nice."

"We can meet there every now and then. If you're amenable."

"Of course."

"Well…good. That's good."

Skye smiles to herself. "Do you want to say hello to Jane? She's tearing her hair out over a math test. I'm sure she'd love a break."

"Hand me over."

"Okay. I'll call Thursday."

"Great—oh, hang on—how's Rosy?"

"Ehhhh. Finals are looming. It's only a matter of time before she's classified as clinically insane and admitted to an mental institution."

"Tell her I'm sending positive thoughts."

"Will do."

"Okay, you can get Jane now. Goodnight, walnut."

"Sweet dreams, turnip," she retorts and places the phone in Jane's waiting hand.

**...**

The hypodermic needle disappears into Hound's thinning mass of fur and he blinks sleepily, muscles slackening as he rests his head on Batty's knee.

"It should only take ten seconds," says the veterinarian. She steps back, watching her canine patient with a weary blue gaze.

"It's okay, Hound," murmurs Batty. She kneels down on the scratched tiles and places her head level with his. "You can go now."

Jane covers her mouth with one hand, stifling a sob. Iantha wraps an arm around her shaking shoulders.

Skye doesn't cry. She's too sad. The end of Hound means the end of an era. The end of butter yellow cottages and ketchup smeared arrows and beaches and bad haircuts and soccer and gingerbread and L-shaped sleeping porches and trees with rope ladders and bonfires and and and—

She should be thanking Hound for all the experiences in which he's played a part, but all she can think of is him devouring their map on that fateful summer day, and the grief deepens, ripping and clawing at her like some cadaverous beast.

With limbs of lead, Skye crouches down next to Batty and lays her palm on her shoulder, fingers splaying and stroking in a desperate gesture of sympathy. With endings there is the hope that it's all an illusion, that nothing is ending, that what you want and try so hard to keep from ending won't ever end, that no matter how long you hold on to something it won't leave. But it does. Always.

Hound nuzzles Batty's stomach, and, with a tiny twitch of the tail, takes his final breath before he is dragged from their world.

Batty swallows and stops rubbing circles on his back.

_We made the best decision._

_The tumor was pressing on his brain. He's not in pain anymore._

_Are you okay?_

_Of course you're not. Stupid question._

_I'm sorry._

_So, so, so, so sorry._

Skye says none of it. It won't help.

Only time can dry the all-covering filth of sadness, make it crack and flake away, leaving their lives clear of sorrow. And them, stained and splattered as they are with memories.


	10. Chapter 10

_(A/N): Yes, Skye does something IC in this chapter. It will make more sense later. Bear with me. At least the research was fun. :D I honestly never thought I would make it to ten chapters, so I'm in a bit of a celebratory mood. Thanks for all the comments and support-it's been the best motivator imaginable._

_Warning: Mild profanity_

...

...

"Grab another box, would you?"

Skye lifts her navy duffle bag from the pavement, leaping to the left to avoid being run over by an enthusiastic cyclist.

Mr. Penderwick drags Skye's state of the art telescope from the trunk of the car, and yelps as he pokes himself with a protruding steel knob.

"Careful, that was expensive."

"Yes, and I do recall being the one who paid for it." He gives her an arch look and she laughs.

"See, one day when I'm a renowned astronomer I can tell my admirers that it's all down to you. My father, who made my wild ventures possible."

"You're beginning to sound like Jane," says Mr. Penderwick, following Skye into the welcome coolness of the residence hall and up a wide flight of stairs.

"You're getting better with your insults, Daddy."

"That wasn't an insult." He grunts and adjusts his grip on the telescope.

Skye shoulders a heavy door open and shuffles into the fluorescent glare of an empty hallway. "My room is 315A. It should be around here somewh—aha!"

She points triumphantly at a door their left. "Here we are." With a stab of anxiety, she twists the brass doorknob and opens the door, revealing a vacant room with a pair of twin beds, two desks, and a large window with a view of the adjacent building's concrete siding. Lovely.

Skye drops her duffle bag to the floor and takes the telescope from her father, placing it gingerly in a corner.

"So…" He steps over the threshold and looks around. "This is where you'll be living for the next nine months. What d'you think?"

"It's not bad. At least I don't have to share with Jane anymore."

He laughs. "I will be very surprised if you never experience a moment's homesickness when you wish you were still rooming with her. College'll do that to a person. Redefine their priorities. Give them perspective."

"Mmm." Skye isn't convinced.

"Looking forward to meeting your roommate?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I don't like people."

"Ah, yes. Neither do I, in any case."

"Really?"

"Why do you think I chose to study Latin in college?"

Skye snorts, then breaks into full-fledged guffaws. "That," she laugh, "is a fantastic point."

Martin gives her a lopsided smile and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Alright, enough amusement at my expense. Let's go grab another box."

**...**

Skye is a physics major. She studies trajectory and velocity and momentum—and astronomy in her spare time; spends hours pouring over the possibility of making it out of a black hole alive, wonders over the great phenomenon of time and space and the ways in which they merge, hangs out of her window at night with her face tilted skyward, frowning quietly into the metropolitan dusk because all she is is a sack of temporary consciousness hurling through space on a tiny rock. She doesn't drink or smoke or inject, but she feels intoxicated all the same. With the theories. The potential. The unknown and the unknowable.

_College can do that to you, Rosalind once told her. Make you dreamy and vague and elegiac. There's no explanation, aside from the fact that you are studying your brains out on zero sleep and more caffeine than anyone should consume in several lifetimes. You just find yourself unanchored, addicted to the ephemeral and mysterious._

Her roommate, Aurora, is also quite unanchored. Aurora has toffee brown hair and heavily lined blue eyes, with a pension for atrocious leggings and scuffed combat boots. She wears a myriad of beaded bracelets that clack whenever she moves, and likes to plug her iPod into her speaker and play Passion Pit at bursting volumes. Sometimes she throws balled-up socks at Skye to get her attention—_I'm going to get a snack; edamame or chickpeas? My hair keeps coming out of this braid, can you help me? Do you ever hear someone say something so misogynistic you want to burn them alive? Damn, I have a test tomorrow and I can't find the lecture slides online! Will you look for me?_

For the first few months, Skye answers Aurora's questions with noncommittal grunts or two-word replies. Then Aurora decides to put an end to that:

"Let's do something."

Aurora is lying in bed, wearing a tattered shirt with a purple fox on it. She's probably had it since ninth grade.

Skye looks up from her laptop, eyes stinging from hours of staring at the monitor. "What?"

"Let's get out of here." Aurora sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"It's 10:17 PM."

"Your point being...?"

"It's late," Skye says somewhat defensively, "when tomorrow is a Monday."

Aurora looks at her for a moment, playing with the bracelets on her left wrist. Then she stands, pulling on her boots and blazer. "Come on. We're going somewhere."

"No," says Skye. "Absolutely not."

"Yes. You're in the greatest city in the world and all you do is go to class and stay in this room."

"Yeah, because parties are stupid."

"I didn't say we were going to a party."

"Well, whatever. I've just never had the desire to watch people descend into further idiocy at the hand of alcohol and moronic music."

"You're so funny when you speak like that." Aurora crams a wad of bills into her wallet.

"Like what?"

"Like you're a sixty-two year old member of parliament. Just an observation," she adds, seeing Skye's murderous look.

"I'm so glad I could provide amusement." Skye closes her laptop against her will and stuffs her feet into a pair of gray converse. She leaves her hair as it is, messy bun and all.

Aurora tosses something in her direction. Skye catches it and inspects the cylindrical object in the light of her lamp. "Mascara? No way."

"Put it on, Penderwick."

"No."

"Yes. You'll feel like Madonna."

Skye glowers at her roommate.

"This has nothing to do with outer beauty. You've already got that covered. But I find that a touch of mascara makes me feel like I can take over the world."

Skye smiles a little at that. "Fine," she says, unscrewing the lid and withdrawing the bristled applicator from its tube. She stares at the gloppy black substance, then raises the brush to her eyes.

"Hold up! You have to wipe some of that off first." Aurora rolls her eyes. "Scrape the wand against the rim of the tube. Yeah… Like that."

Skye does. When she places the brush against her lashes it feels odd; stiff and sticky. She blinks.

"Not too shabby for a first try."

"It wasn't my first try," Skye lies, but Aurora grins like she knows better.

"Now the other eye."

Skye repeated her motions and observes herself in the mirror. Her cerulean eyes look larger and oddly intense. She can't decide if this is good or bad, but when she looks at Aurora the girl gives a low whistle of approval.

"You look incredible, Skye-lark."

"Stop calling me that."

"Never."Aurora takes the mascara and pops in into her bag. "Come on. Let's go do something wild."

**...**

"Standard, median line," Aurora explains without hesitation.

"Is this your first piercing?" The man clasps his hands and leans across the glass counter-top, inspecting her with raised eyebrows.

Aurora laughs.

"I'll take that as a no." He pulls a drawer open and extracts a folder. He lets it flop open on the counter and points to a design on the top left corner of the page. "This is a standard barbell. You won't be able to wear it right away, though. Maybe after two or three weeks at the very minimum, but six would be optimal."

"Great," says Aurora. "That's the one."

"Great," echoes the piercing artist. "And if you end up not liking it, you can remove the barbell and your tongue should heal within several hours. Amazing thing, the human body."

He looks at Skye when he says this, and her face heats inexplicably. "Will you be getting your tongue pierced as well?"

In the moment she hesitates, Aurora speaks for her. "Yes. We're doing it together."

_No, wait, this isn't—oh, screw it._

"Lovely. My name's Graham," the man says cheerfully, gesturing through the stark, clean lines of his studio towards a room in the back. Even from here, Skye can see reassuring clinical steel, and they follow him obligingly as he outlines the procedure and motions for them to take a seat.

"Right," he says, pulling on a paper of latex gloves. "Let's take a look. We need to make sure your lingual vein placement will allow for a piercing."

Graham peers at Skye's lips and she opens her mouth, sticking her tongue out so he can get a clear view. The rubber from his gloves tastes annoyingly bitter in her mouth, but he performs the examination with practiced confidence. "Beautiful. I can do it without a problem," he concludes, removing the gloves and snapping on a second pair before doing the same to Aurora.

Once they have both been inspected and given the go ahead, Graham perches atop a rolling stool and explains the procedure. "The needle will go down through the tongue, and then I'll slide the bar in. It'll feel uncomfortable for the first few hours. Then comes the fun part—the swelling."

He demonstrates with his fingers, indicating how much the muscles could expand. "For at least the first seventy-two hours, you both need to avoid hot drinks, alcohol, cigarettes and solid food." He organizes tools as he speaks. "Talking won't be easy either. Your tongues will lose a lot of their dexterity until they're fully healed. Lisping is the least of your worries. I would recommend a salt water rinse for the first three days, then a non-alcoholic antibacterial mouthwash."

Aurora nods. "Yeah, I've done this before. I remember."

"Still. It's kind of mandatory that I give this little lecture. It's for your safety." He grins and wipes a needle with antiseptic. "Not that I doubt your expertise."

Aurora smirks and straightens her shoulders. It's blandly obvious to Skye that she's flirting, but Graham seems merely friendly—the chance of him giving away his number to Aurora seems slim, even if he is only a few years older than they are.

"Alright. Who wants to go first?"

"Why not," says Aurora. "Might as well get this over with."

So Graham tilts her face toward the light and asks her to stick out her tongue, which she does. He takes the muscular appendage carefully between a pair of small forceps, then slips the needle through. Aurora doesn't make a sound, smiling calmly when he sits back and informs her that she's all done.

"Sucking on an ice cube can do wonders," says Graham, ushering Aurora toward the front room. "But you already knew that, right?"

She shrugs coyly and take a seat on a zebra print couch.

Graham chuckles and closes the door, walking back over to Skye and sitting down before her. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." She holds out a hand, feeling briefly stupid for the gesture of politeness. "I'm Skye."

He takes it, squeezing her hand in his own before relinquishing it and turning to the task at hand. "You ready?"

"Yes," says Skye, and she must have sounded more sarcastic than she intended, because Graham smiles and says, "This was your friend's idea, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to."

"No, it's—I want to do something unexpected." Skye scratches at a spot above her right ear, suddenly embarrassed.

"Ah, stepping out of your comfort zone?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"I like it." Graham smiles easily and brushes a glove finger along her jaw. "Alright, Skye, open up."

It doesn't take long. The pressure of forceps – fresh, cold steel, noticeably sterilized – is a fleeting bite on her tongue. The plunge of the needle is a brighter, interfering kind of pain: momentary resistance and then a smooth slide that makes her muscles twitch in response. However, Graham is quick and proficient, and before long the bar is in place, metallic and foreign in her mouth.

"There you are." He peels off his gloves, and gives Skye a gentle pat on the arm. "If there are any signs of infection, go straight to your GP. Other than that, you're just peachy."

Skye goes to thank him and finds she can't. She can vocalize sound, but getting her tongue to articulate the syllables is another matter entirely.

Sensing her predicament, Graham holds up his hands. "Don't attempt speech, okay? It hurts like hell." He winces. "God, sorry, I keep forgetting not to curse in front of customers. Forget I said that."

_Said what?_ Skye wants to tease, but of course she cannot. Instead she smiles around her aching tongue and gives a quick little wave that Graham returns before she steps over the threshold and is gone.


	11. Chapter 11

"You did _what_?"

Skye feels a frisson of triumph at the anger in Rosalind's voice. "Stop yelling, Rosy. I can take it out anytime I want."

"What would possess you to do something like that?"

"I don't know, maybe I got tired of being predictable and wanted to do something more unorthodox."

"Or your roommate made you."

"You only met her once. You don't know anything."

"She did!"

Skye sighs.

"Peer pressure? Really?"

"It wasn't peer pressure! Aurora encouraged me. That's all. I have free will. No one can force me to do anything I don't want to. You have to know that about me by now."

"But she's responsible for planting the idea in your head."

"So what? Do you really have this much of an issue with piercings?" Skye flops onto her side and glares at the wall. "Of all the things to be worried about, why would you pick something so benign? Be angry about war, poverty, discrimina-"

"I'm worried because this is out of character for you."

"Yeah? Well. We all change. Maybe you should try getting to know me again."

"Maybe so."

The phone line crackles and breaks.

Then the weak whine of the dialing tone, a hospital heart monitor after someone has been dragged from the world.

**...**

_6:42 PM_

_I have a date with Chloe tonight and I have absolutely no idea what to wear. – J_

_6:44 PM_

_Black shirt or blue? – J_

_6:45 PM_

_I'm standing in my room in my underwear and I've only got ten minutes. – J_

_6:45 PM_

_Skye? –J_

_6:47 PM_

_Black. – S_

_6:48 PM_

_Thought you might say that. – J_

_6:48 PM_

_Well, obviously. You look like a convict in the blue one. Not exactly prime date material. – S_

_6:49 PM_

_Don't sugarcoat it. – J_

_6:50 PM_

_Stop sulking and put some clothes on. You're going to be late. – S_

_6:50 PM_

_Fine. Talk later. – J_

_6:53 PM_

_Good luck. – S_

**…**

_8:25 PM_

_Is it customary for men to cover the bill on a date? – J_

_8:26 PM_

_How would I know? – S_

_8:27 PM_

_I ordered an appetizer and Chloe went for a three course meal. We probably spent over eighty dollars. I'm desperate. – J_

_8:28 PM_

_Not my problem. I'm studying for finals. – S_

_8:28 PM_

_And why are you texting on a date? – S_

_8:29 PM_

_She's in the bathroom. – J_

_8:30 PM_

_I see. How's it going? – S_

_8:30 PM _

_Not bad. – J_

_8:30 PM_

_No major catastrophes? – S_

_8:31 PM_

_I didn't spill soda down my lap like the last time. – J_

_8:31 PM_

_You're making progress. – S_

_8:32 PM _

_She's back. I have to go. – J_

_8:32 PM _

_Have fun. – S_

**…**

_8:55 PM_

_On subway. – J_

_8:57 PM_

_Done so soon? – S_

_8:57 PM_

_Chloe got a call from her mother. Her dad's in the hospital again. – J_

_8:58 PM_

_Too bad. – S_

_9:00 PM_

_Our conversation was dwindling anyway. – J_

_9:01 PM_

_Hey, I'm near that ice cream place we like. Want to meet me there in fifteen? – J_

_9:03 PM_

_Be right there. – S_

_9:04 PM_

_What about finals? :) – J_

_9:05 PM_

_The thought of ice cream seems to have made me delirious. – S_

_9:06 PM_

_Glad to hear it. Banana splits? – J_

_9:06 PM_

_With extra whipped cream. – S_

_9:07 PM_

_Obviously. – J_

_9:08 PM_

_There better still be two banana splits by the time I get there. – S_

_9:09 PM_

_Yes, wouldn't it be awful if something were to…happen? – J_

_9:09 PM_

_Don't you dare. – S_

_9:10 PM_

_Hurry. – J_

**...**

The next time Skye speaks to Rosalind is at Christmas.

They sit, stuffing themselves with gluttonous portions of turkey, cranberry sauce, creamed spinach and potatoes, stoically refusing to make conversation until their great uncle Hugh gives an obnoxious belch and they meet eyes across the table, dissolving into flush of merriment that leaves them both breathless.

"So how does Jeffrey like the piercing?" Rosalind asks later that night.

"He hasn't mentioned it."

"He's slightly terrified of you, I think."

"Mm. All is as it should be."

Rosy snorts and Skye giggles, and that's it, they flop against the kitchen counter, laughing until their ribs ache.

**...**

Chloe breaks up with Jeffrey as the year is drawing its last breath.

The news fills Skye's stomach with a strange oozing warmth she prefers not to examine. She tries thinking about lactobacilli and staphylococci, about the evolution of meiosis, about the glowing precision with which the earth orbits the sun.

She fails, spectacularly.

So _this_ is—well, she's not going to put a word to it, whatever it is.

Rats.


	12. Chapter 12

_(A/N): Ah, the slow burn... This chapter gave me actual pains to write. Please tell me what you think._

_..._

_..._

"Hmm. Well. This _is_ a hard one."

The coffee shop is drowsy and warm and generally devoid of people, save for an elderly woman in an unexpected biker jacket, Skye, and her seatmate—her very freckled seatmate.

"Invert the fraction," she offers, glancing away from the way the slow swim of sunlight flecks Jeffrey's hair with little bursts of dazzle.

A moment later, he makes a strangled noise of triumph and his face splits into a wide grin.

That face. Skye could write eighteen novels about that face, with several side adaptations and a dubious collection of haikus. She curls her fingers into fists beneath the table top and looks back down at her book: _Radioactivity and Nuclear Physics._

"It's really a shame students have to take required classes. I thought I was finally free of these equations."

Jeffrey is teasing her. Probing at her with his cheery little one-sided conversation. It's unacceptable.

"I hate your face." Her words pop out like some ghastly kind of burp. Startling and acrid, they dangle in the air, giving Skye a moment to pray for an apocalypse that will turn her to ash in approximately two milliseconds.

"What?" Said face rises over the calculus textbook like the sun or moon or Jupiter or whatever planetary body, the point is, it's got Skye caught in its gravity—she revolves around it, she's utterly trapped.

That stupid face, that atrociously tolerant, horribly gentle, abominably kind face peers at her quizzically. Waits so patiently she can positively feel the affection emanating from it. There is no shield from this Medusa, all she can do is look away as quickly as possible.

Turning to page four hundred and eight, she stares resolvedly at a model of nuclear decay, refusing to meet Jeffrey's inquiring gaze. In fact, she's never going to look at his face again. Never.

Which is apparently three point six seconds.

Her traitorous eyes dart up and there it is, same as always: Warm and open like an embrace, the faint laugh lines around his eyes drawing attention to the emerald irises. The rosy scraps of lip curled up at the edges just enough to make her stomach feel quivery.

It's unfair in every sense of the word! How's a person supposed to look at a face like that and not feel things?

"You hate my face?" Jeffrey looks so endearingly perplexed that Skye actually looks around for something to punch, should her simmering outrage reach a boiling point.

"Yes, I—it's a stupidly—never mind." A voluminous huff of vexation follows this blunder and she leaps up from her chair, flailing over to the sticky marble counter for more tea, failing to stomp as loudly as she'd planned.

It can't go on. It can't! Jeffrey has been tormenting her with this face for years, and now, when she is especially frustrated, he has the nerve—The gall!—to use it against her. How dare he!

Skye grabs wildly at her refilled mug and storms back to the table, ready for war. She looms over Jeffrey's chair as forebodingly as she can, which is rather a lot, thank you very much, and he—

Glances up.

Smiles.

Has the audacity to beam at her. "Sugar's right here if you need it."

And with that he goes back to his calculus, but not before pressing the porcelain sugar bowl into her hand with a wink.

All her sharp and beautiful crossness melts into a soft pile of sludge with an almost audible _pleh_.

Oh, for Pete's sake. She's doomed.

...

The sky pours down like a fountain, catching them in its wrath.

"Under here," says Skye, opening her umbrella.

Jeffrey ducks beneath it, his hair catching briefly on the orange canvas.

The whole city is a washed out watercolor blur, and the only people still on the streets are drenched pedestrians dashing to and fro with jackets held uselessly over their heads. It looks like a scene out of an old movie. Skye shuffles a little to the left, accidentally bumping Jeffrey's elbow with her own. To her utter astonishment, he blushes, a lovely wash of pink blooming on his cheeks and ears. Their upper arms are now firmly in contact, but neither of them moves away as societal norms surely dictate.

Skye glances over at the place where their limbs are pressed together and doesn't understand why the sight makes her breath trip on its way into her lungs.

She coughs.

"You okay?"

Jeffrey looks down at her with an expression of concern. The blush hasn't yet faded; his neck is still faintly rubicund.

"Yeah, m'fine." She shakes her head and gazes resolutely ahead.

Skye reminds herself: Jeffrey Tifton is no one special, he is simply a mess of cell and tissue and bone; a disease vector; heat and mass.

Heat and mass that is staring at her with softened eyes, transmuting glorious human warmth through two layers of woolen jackets into her own skin, burrowing into her flesh, her chest, her organs, brain, veins, blood. Wretched thing.

It's just Jeffrey. Jeffrey and something _else_. A confounding variable that generates a glowing, giddy swell in her torso. She breathes in, breathes out. Pushes the feeling down.

"Skye."

"Yes?"

His pupils are gigantic. He shifts forward, lessens the distance between them. His eyes land on hers for the smallest of moments and there is something in them that makes Skye wonder if her feelings have not been so unreciprocated after all, if perhaps she has not been imagining the subetext all this time, and the thought of that, the potential, is suddenly so overwhelming, electrifying, frightening—

"Taxi."

Jeffrey blinks and the moment shatters, collapsing like a badly constructed house of cards. "Oh," he breathes, following Skye's gaze. "Right."

Her heart feels like a half-dead thing. Why did she have to—?

Jeffrey moves back, beating a hasty retreat. "Uh. Thanks for the calc advice." His voice is a deflated balloon.

Skye watches him get into the cab; throat clogged, body heavy and paralyzed, heart minnow darting sideways beneath her sternum.

When the _sorry, wait, don't, stop _finally tumble out of her mouth, Jeffrey has already departed in a 32 mph yellow blur.

...

"Don't sweat it," says Aurora.

"I can't not."

"He's just a person. There are plenty of those."

"Like him, though? No." Her voice is low and bitter. "No, the number of people in the world like Jeffrey Tifton is woefully inadequate."

...

Months pass. And then—

...

"You stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid blundering idiotic _fool."_

She launches herself at Jeffrey's prone body and envelopes him in a fierce embrace that makes him wince and clutch at his bandages.

"Sk—"

"I'm not surprised," she continues, giving a mad little giggle and wiping tears from her nose. "Only you would go and get a grand piano dropped on your head."

"It was—"

"Shut up," Skye sniffs, "You can explain later. I need a moment to—"

She doesn't finish her sentence, just rests her head on his bruised chest and hiccups with a sorry mixture of laughter and sobs.

"This," he slurs. "This is my reward for getting into…" He blinks down at her, bewildered. "Into…whatever school it is I go to…er…"

"Juilliard, you crazy idiot." Skye sighs away the last of her tear-stained chuckles. "You like you've been through war."

"'Tis but a scratch," he murmurs, and she groans at the reference.

"These painkillers have given you a hideous sense of humor."

"Mmm…think you're right."

She draws back and helps him struggle into a sitting position.

"I'm glad you're not dead."

He swallows. "Me too."

"Can you imagine the coroner's report? Cause of death: piano_._" She curls her fingers over his knee and squeezes meaningfully.

"I'm always telling people how our musical instruments are secretly out to get us. Damnable death machines…"

Oh, Jeffrey. "Well, extraordinary people don't die of mere pedestrian causes, you see." She stares fondly at him. "That's just the way things work. We can't question it."

"You're saying I'm extraordinary?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

He breaks into a warm, crinkly smile. "In that case, when I do die it'll have to be because of something quite bizarre."

"You could say that."

"I'll be plucked from earth by aliens. Or fall into an infinite vacuum and become dust, perhaps."

"Perhaps," she agrees. "Though I'm not sure anything can top a fallen piano."

Jeffrey glances mournfully at the IV drip. "Next time they decide to haul one upstairs, I'm leaving campus."

Skye sits quietly down in the polyester plush of the corner armchair, watching him slip back to sleep the way one might stare at Rembrandt's _Night Watch_. Because it's valuable; glorious beyond spoken expression.

...

She didn't really apologize, did she? Not officially.

Nonetheless.

He forgives her anyway.


	13. Chapter 13

_(A/N): My headcanon for the beginning of this chapter is that it's spring break, which is why the family is all together again. Anyway. I'll be taking a short break from posting just to get more of this fic written for you lovely people. But I shall be back soon. Look for me._

...

...

"My dreams have come to fruition at last!" Jane beams across the table at her family, cheeks flushed with excitement. Her curls are riotous and springy, tumbling over her shoulders in wild disarray and she's wearing an old cardigan with several holes and a stain of unknown origin, but the news was too exciting for any of them to waste time freshening up before rushing off to Antonio's for celebratory pineapple pizza with extra cheese.

"Which story did they publish?" asks Ben, batting Skye's hand away from the spicy pepper flakes.

"The one about oracle and the secret language, which," adds Jane, "has a heavy basis in Latin. Daddy was a phenomenal resource."

Mr. Penderwick winks at her and reaches down to retrieve his fallen napkin. "I'm honored that I was able to assist with your grand magnum opus, Jane-o. I can't wait to read it in its entirety."

"Skye, promise you'll look it over and tell me what you think."

A swell of affection wells in Skye's torso at Jane's beseeching stare. "Of course. At least I know it won't be as torturous as _Sisters and Sacrifice_."

Iantha and Rosalind laugh, and Jane rolls her eyes. "Thanks ever so much."

"Have you told Jeffrey the news?" Batty interjects before Skye can reply.

"Oooh, not yet! I can't wait. He'll be so excited."

"Yeah, excited that you can finally shut up about not being a published author."

"_Skye!_"

"Sorry. Have another slice." Skye passes the platter and yelps as a bit of sizzling tomato sauce lands on her wrist.

"To Jane," says Mr. Penderwick, raising his glass of lemon seltzer. "To our beautiful master of shattered ceilings and brewing stories. Congratulations, dear girl."

"To Jane," echoes the rest of the family.

And for once, Jane Letitia Penderwick is utterly, completely, magnificently at a loss for words.

**...**

Later that week, Skye receives her pre-ordered copy of Jane's novella, _Then the Quiet Explosion. _She opens it to the first page, which is blank, save for thirteen words in noir Times New Roman font:

"For my sisters. May all your days be painted in the brightest gold."

Skye makes a soft sound and begins to read, cloaked in the dim incandescence of Cameron's pre-dawn light.

**...**

Jeffrey's common room is devoid of students, lit only with the hazy glow of a single lamp and fluttering fire.

Skye folds her limbs in a plaid armchair and swallows. She's watching him read, waiting for him to comment on the tangled plot of _War and Peace_—something Jane would be glad to assist with if she were here—or perhaps just watching, slightly mesmerized by the rapid back-and-forth movement of green eyes across the pages. It's extraordinary, really, that focus, the intensity in the emerald, molten with reflections of the firelight. They are eyes that see everything, always, and Skye wonders what they must see when they look at her. Much as she tries to conceal her emotions, she feels transparent in his presence. Jeffrey is an X-ray that cuts through the calciferous cage of her skeleton and gets her right in her heart, the four chambered organ that races when he's around. He must, he must see how she feels, how stupid and clumsy and awkward she becomes, how on one hand she is free to be herself with him, but on another becomes inexplicably flushed and unsteady. It's obvious. Has to be.

"Skye?" Jeffrey's eyes stay resolutely trained on his book.

"Hmm?"

"What were you thinking just then?"

Skye blinks, frowning in confusion, then laughs in a quick, uneasy spurt. "What?"

"You were staring."

She splutters, her mouth opening and closing, and she can feel her face darkening several shades. "I—I—no I wasn't."

"Yes." Jeffrey hauls himself into a sitting position, running his fingers absently along the carpet's tasseled perimeter. He lays his book aside, never breaking contact with Skye's darting eyes. "You were."

"I was not."

"This is the fifth time in an hour you've done it," Jeffrey continues, ignoring her. "Is there something wrong? Have I grown a second head?" He laughs, trying for nonchalance, but misses it by a mile. There's something in his expression that gives Skye reason to believe he is just as nervous as she is.

"Nothing's wrong. I wasn't thinking about anything."

"Oh. Well. I was."

Skye blinks, feeling a stab of warmth in her stomach. Her stupid heart jumps into double-time. "Are you going to tell me what?"

Wordlessly Jeffrey stands and moves forward, dream-like, his face unusually pale but for a smudge of pink at the cheekbones. When he reaches Skye's chair he stares down at her for a moment, then kneels, and without further ado, presses his lips against hers.

The kiss is clumsy—it's a fleeting, dry collision of closed mouths with open eyes. It's more of a bump than anything. Embarrassed, Jeffrey grimaces and pulls back, but Skye reaches up and places a palm on the nape of his neck, keeping him in place.

She can't decide what to focus on, flitting between Jeffrey eyes and lips, waiting for one of them to crack, to break, to shatter the illusion and tell her it's all just one massive joke, because Skye knows there will be no going back if this is to happen. And she cannot see it happening—in her mind, perhaps, but not in reality. She will drive Jeffrey away, shut him out, close him down, the way she inevitably does everyone. The two people whose lives have been irrevocably entwined since their meeting will be ripped apart for once and for all, and that will be the death of her. The only acceptable end to this predicament would be no end at all, and Skye cannot bridge the blazing gap between them if Jeffrey does not understand the permanence.

"Jeffrey, if we—I can't—you have to underst—"

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I know."

"No you—"

"I want it, all of it. Please."

Skye's breath freezes in her lungs. The multiverse comes to an epic standstill.

Then Jeffrey's eyes flick down to her lips, and the evidence is incontrovertible, that's all she needs to know, the final step after nearly a decade of climbing. She leans forward and pulls him to her and they meet a second time; explode, implode, shatter, regenerate, burst, bloom, _yes_.

With the oscillating firelight behind them they cast a perfect silhouette on the wall, their profiles shaped as two figures in a shadow play, two figures melting into one. Because Skye, who is no more the mulish, stoic person she once was and Jeffrey, who is no more the hesitant, uncertain Jeffrey, are kissing.

Everything is a running river of warmth and heartbeat, and Skye threads her fingers in Jeffrey's hair, feeling his arms come up to encircle her as they reach for the edges of this new, bright thing, finding it boundless, and yes oh god yes this is it this is kissing _this_ is kissing.

Perhaps that little girl with the clumsy handwriting and bright blue eyes, who believed so thoroughly in what her astronomy books said, was wrong, because Skye and Jeffrey have broken the pattern of their orbit, and they collide now. Tenderly, eagerly. Because they are kissing, and, in the grand scheme of things, in the big dance of the cosmos, it's the only movement that matters.


	14. Chapter 14

Hats flutter down through the air, landing amidst rows of cheering graduates. Skye is picking hers off the ground a few feet to the right of her chair when she is walloped by a pair of arms and a shriek.

"Skye!"

Aurora's hair smells of Herbal Essences and cigarette smoke. "You were incredible!"

Skye laughs, shaking her head. "I felt like I was going to be sick the entire time. I'm never agreeing to speak at any graduation ever again. Ne. Ver."

"What are you talking about? You looked cool as a cucumber. I could hear your friend cheering his head off at the end."

Said friend is making his way through the crush of people, holding a Pepsi in one hand and a bouquet of daffodils in the other, his lilac necktie crooked just slightly to the left. Skye waves and he returns the gesture, grinning like a maniac.

"Sk—" His attempts at speech are aborted entirely as she tackles him with a fierce hug.

"Oof!" He staggers backward in an effort to absorb the momentum. "Hello, then."

"Hello." Skye draws back and sees with no small amount of dismay that the flowers are a bit crushed. Jeffrey hands them over anyway and she takes them, beaming. "Thanks."

"I was amazed but not surprised by your performance. Well done."

She shrugs. "I was just telling Aurora how nervous I was. Right around that Abraham Lincoln quote I was sure I was going to pass out. I remember the signs all too well," she adds darkly.

"I never would have guessed." Jeffrey squeezes her shoulder and Aurora nods her agreement.

"I can't believe we're college graduates." Aurora takes a sip of her lemonade. "What the hell are we going to do next?"

"Be adults, I suppose."

"How boring."

Skye heaves a gusty sigh and glances out over the green expanse of lawn and courtyard. "If only we could just hop in the Tardis and, you know. Go back."

"Is that nostalgia I hear? My, my. You seem to have lost your steely façade, Skye-lark."

"What have I told you about calling me th—"

"Shhhh." Aurora lays a finger on Skye's lips. "The future is bright. Embrace it."

"Okay," Skye says gruffly. "Now, don't you have a boyfriend to go talk to? Or something?"

Aurora rolls her eyes and whirls off, leaving the faintest trace of gardenia perfume behind.

"Skye?"

"Hmm?"

"I was thinking— Well, I was looking—" Jeffrey glances away, seeming to consider something before clearing his throat and trying a second time, voice disturbingly casual. "I was looking at an apartment. A few miles from here."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and it's somewhat small but it has a lot of windows and sunlight and a rickety spiral staircase that makes you feel like you've walked into a Dickens novel and—Oh, stop laughing, you'd like it too!—and I talked to the landlord and he said it would be alright if I played my piano and clarinet during the day and—Stop it! It was lovely! Skye!?"

"Sorry, sorry," she laughs, shaking her head as she covers her mouth with the back of a hand.

"I am trying to discuss something serious with you."

"I know. I'm sorry, please, tell me."

"Well, not if you're going to act like thi—"

"Jeffrey, will you just ask me to move in with you already?"

"Why would you assume that's what I was going to ask?"

"No reason. Whatever. I probably would've said no anyway."

"Yes, well, all for the best then."

"It would seem so."

Jeffrey frowns at his soda, fiddling with the aluminum tab.

Skye smirks down at her flowers, waiting.

"Would you consider—"

"Yes."

"It's close to Central Park."

"Great."

"There's a little falafel place down the street. With the kind of pita bread you like."

"Sounds charming."

"It comes fully furnished."

"Nice."

"And it has two bedrooms."

"Unnecessary."

Jeffrey laughs, the sound growing as he tilts his head toward the fading sunshine and closes his eyes.

Skye giggles along, watching him sigh down the last of his amusement.

"Well… Good. Yes." He drops his gaze to her face and grins. "Shall we?"

"We shall," murmurs Skye, taking the proffered arm and slipping hers into the crook of his elbow. Then they stroll away, off to the next flaming adventure the world has in store for them.

...

Surprisingly, the apartment is exactly what Skye had envisioned. Modest but spacious, somewhat old-world with a clean, modern aesthetic and ensconced in an adjoining row of brownstones, it sports a cluster of unlikely oak saplings growing through a sizable crack in the pavement, and the seven stairs leading up to their front door are painted by turns aquamarine, rose, and yellow. The best thing about it is the fact that in half a mile's radius she and Jeffrey can visit a library, organic foods market, five boutiques, a dentist, print shop, bookstore, and a multitude of restaurants and cafes.

Perfect does not exist. But.

If it did it, it would be their little abode.

...

"…We're _not_ calling it The Albedo."

"Why not? An albedo is the fraction of the total light incident on a reflecting surface, especially a celestial body, which is reflected back in all directions. Who wouldn't want their home to be named something so incandescent?"

"Skye."

"Fine. The Positron, then. An elementary particle having the same mass as that of an electron but with equal and positive charge."

"No."

"Please?"

"We are not naming our home after physics terminology, however incandescent it may be."

"Spoilsport."

...

In the end, they settle on "The Other Arundel Cottage," or "Arundel Cottage II," or sometimes, "Arundel Cottage: The Sequel."

The neighbors never manage to puzzle out why.


	15. Chapter 15

_(A/N): Happy friday! _

_Warning: incoming angst_

_..._

_..._

The rooms are almost finished, furniture rearranged and pictures hung, and Skye has even scraped Jeffrey's music stand across the wood floor to the window where she knows he'd like it. A fire is lit in the grate, throwing off heat and orange light that leaves shadows dancing in the corners of the room.

"Skye," Jeffrey calls from above, "Don't eat anything yet. Mr. Wilkerson dropped off a potato and leek stew while you were out and I put it in the refrigerator for later."

Before she can respond, a deafening crash from upstairs startles her into speechlessness.

"Damned piano bench!…" Jeffrey cries and Skye can hear what sounds suspiciously like someone shoving a wooden artifice repeatedly against the wall. "…intent my illicit destruction!"

A framed photograph of seven year old Jane with a very tragic bowl cut clatters to the floor and the dishes rattle in their cabinets.

Then silence reigns once more and Skye sinks onto the sofa and laughs until tears roll down her cheeks.

Finally, finally this new place feels like home.

**...**

Thick, acrid tobacco smoke drifts into the living room where Skye is endeavoring to work. She glances up, frowning, and rises, staggering over numerous stacks of arias, minuets, and waltzes to get to the open window. She pokes her head out. Looks down. Sees a scruffy haired young man sprawled on her stoop, nursing a smoldering cigarette.

"Hey."

He startles and his eyes flick up, tracking the sound. "Oh. Hello."

"It's up to you if you want to destroy your health and the environment with that cigarette, but would you mind not doing so on my doorstep?"

"Didn't know this was your place." He sits up, scrubbing a palm over his forehead. "Sorry. I'm on break, is all."

"Break?"

"I work down the street at Johnny's."

"Ah. Well. You're still going to have to find somewhere else to blacken your lungs."

As if to illustrate her point, he blows a few rings of smoke, then gets to his feet and stares up at her. "I don't smoke to be self-destructive or anything," he says, apropos of nothing. "I'm an artist. I light up maybe once every two months. _Maybe_."

Skye snorts. "The wistful, reflective type, I take it?" She thinks of Jane.

"Not really. I buy cigarettes so I slow down and learn to focus on something with single-minded intensity."

"Mmm."

"They make me think."

"What about?" asks Skye, peering back over her shoulder at the half-written dissertation awaiting her.

"Things that burn and glow and never last long." The cigarette falls from between his lips and is crushed beneath his heel. "So long."

He parts with a wave and a somber look, and Skye wonders briefly what his name is.

...

The glow of the digital clock next to the bed tells her midnight, tells her 12:13, tells her 12:40, tells her to stop looking, it's not going to make him come home any faster.

Jeffrey. Gone. Stormed out. Overreaction. She's called him an idiot before. Stupid. More than once, even. She hadn't really meant it this time, it was just that Jeffrey's usual patience seemed a little weaker than usual. So what if she still loses her temper now and then? If she's not a pillar of composure every time, all the time, what of it? What, Jeffrey's going to leave if she's not?

A sick tremor of nausea sloshes in her stomach, makes the bedroom spin.

She hears the distant click of the door. Hears scuffed leather Oxfords padding into the kitchen. A floorboard flexing in the sitting room. Silence, ticking and beating like a tell-tale heart. She can practically feel Jeffrey standing out there.

Her throat is tight and her body icy with dread, and she lies there, sheets twisted in her worrying fingers. She can do this, she must do this, she must find a way to fix what she's broken before—

The heavy duvet is on the floor and she's upright before the groan of the threshold's first step evaporates from the air.

She doesn't mean to shout quite so loudly as she barrels around the corner and into the hall. "Don't!"

Jeffrey turns, eyeing her warily, mutely.

"Please just, um. Don't. Go out again yet."

"Okay," he murmurs, but doesn't say anything more.

"What I said. Earlier." He blinks at her. "I… Didn't mean it." Pause. Fiddle with the zipper of her jacket.

"No?"

"No!" She swallows. Inhales, exhales. "'Course not."

"Ah. Okay."

"I was an idiot, you were—" Understandably aggravated; startled by her harsh outburst; hurt (the notion makes her squirm, makes her heart feel like it has suddenly taken up residence in her large intestine). Skye doesn't do well with wounded feelings. Never has. Especially when they're her fault.

"I'm an atom bomb," she blurts out of the blue, leaving her last sentence for dead. "I'm a mess of rebelling chemicals that explode at the worst possible moments and I always leave a trail of rubble everywhere and people don't know what to do with me because I only seem to get more dangerous and more unwieldy and more out of control and I don't what to do about it but I do know it's wrong and I never meant to take it out on you and I know you're the only one that will ever be my gravity when I spin out to challenge black holes and I'm sorry, I'm sorry it's like this, that I'm like this, that I'm more a weapon than a human being—"

Jeffrey jolts forward, grabbing her hand and squeezing it in his own so firmly, so tightly, she can feel her metacarpals groaning and grinding together. "It's alright," he says, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb, "I'm not angry and you're not an atom bomb and this is not the end of the world."

It's like someone turns on the light.

He bends, swoops, kisses her fiercely. "Do you believe me?"

The small rush of air against her ear sends a warm wash of shiver from neck to shoulder to torso. Something releases. Something aligns. Her hand is suddenly pressing very hard into the small of his back.

"Yes," she breathes after some time. "Yes." Quietly, gratefully, tenderly. For Jeffrey's ears alone.

...

You close your eyes and the world spins, because that's just what the world does, doesn't it, it spins and spins and spins and it doesn't ask anyone if spinning this way is alright, and years pass and pass and pass and everyone gets older, more jaded, more harsh, more lonely.

Then, if you're lucky, The Good Thing comes, rosy and brilliant with beating wings and eyes like screaming bullets, and pulls you out of the ashes by the scruff of your neck and sets you ablaze again.

Skye's Good Thing is battered and bruised and a bit rusty, as though it has been shuttered away in the dark for eons, but when it happens it shines furiously bright, like the exploding stars she always admires through the plexi lens of her telescope.

...

_Two Years Later_

...

It's a beautiful day. The city has recovered its vigorous and violent pulse from the befuddling heat of summer and now everything is as it should be; schools open, business hours as usual, autumn sunshine inflaming the smears of color on store awnings, buses, and late blooming urban gardens.

"The sky is very blue today," says Jeffrey, and Skye grins. They and they alone are the only ones capable of deciphering that lovely little code.

"It is."

What she doesn't know is that she is approximately fourteen seconds from being asked for her hand in "—uh, er, oh dear…um!—" as they perch on a newly painted park bench eating turkey and provolone on rye. What she doesn't know is that right now, as she steps into the street, there is a little satin bag deep in Jeffrey's pocket with a promise inside, an oath cast in steel. What she doesn't know is that everything is going to change in three, two, one—

The taxi cab comes roaring out of nowhere and knocks her right off her feet.


	16. Chapter 16

If this is drowning, it's not an altogether unpleasant feeling. It's like drifting ever downward, tumbling through indigo, aquamarine, navy, without the need for oxygen, without the barest hint of pain. It's a hazy contentment, like you can climb out anytime you want.

She doesn't.

...

[coma: from the Greek _koma_, meaning "deep sleep," a state of unconsciousness lasting more than six hours, in which a person cannot be awakened]

...

"It's alright, don't, she'll be fine. Don't, Jane! Please. Here, have a tissue."

"Oh god, I—what can we do?"

"Wait and see."

"Can't do that. Not strong enough."

"Don't lie to yourself. Of course you are."

"No no no I'm not. I'm not, I can't, not again. Not. Again."

"Again? _Oh_. Jane, this isn't like that. I swear to you isn't."

"Then why is she…?"

"She'll wake up."

"That's not what the doctor said."

"The doctors aren't going to decide if our sister will live or not. They don't have the right."

"But—"

"Sit down, please, and be quiet. We don't need Batty to hear."

"She's not a little girl, Rosy."

"She's littler than we are. And I promised, remember? I promised Mommy I would take care of her. I think this qualifies."

"Who's going to take care of Skye, then?"

"Mommy and God, I expect."

"I only believe in one of those."

...

Someone straggling on taking breath after dragging breath in the slim margin of "twenty percent chance of survival" is chilling for those who observe.

But it's not like this at all for the ones who have slipped into the blue.

Skye lives in a light-shot darkness, and it's extraordinary, beautiful, and bizarre. Obscenely fascinating for a physicist like herself; refraction and photometry, fiber optics and prisms, holography and polarization, color intensity and mirror, all melting together in a stunning bioluminescent swirl. If only she had her notebook.

She knows where she is. And that she should probably wake up and stop putting her family and friends in such constant, enormous fear.

Still. All there is to do here is think. How precious that is.

How rare.

...

The noises of the hospital are tides that come and go. Lights that flare and dim. She hears Jeffrey's voice now and then. "You're a selfish walnut, you know that, right?" Something brushes at her wrist, warm and callused. "Look at you, still trying to slip off."

_"Refraction is the bending of a wave when it enters a medium where its speed is different. The refraction of light when it passes from a fast medium to a slow medium bends the light ray toward the normal to the boundary between the two media. The amount of bending depends on the indices of refraction of the two media and is described quantitatively by Snell's Law."_

Jeffrey sends light down into the blue, but it only goes so far before splintering, shattering, rupturing in too many directions to provide much illumination.

I'm trying to come to the surface, Skye wants to say. But it's dark down here in the depths. I'll get the bends if I rise too quickly. I'll get snapped up by a shark. I've got to be careful.

He squeezes her hand in his own. "I'm still here, Skye, I'm not leaving. Come back, you crazy, dear woman. It's time."

...

She tries opening her eyes and it never works. It never works until it does work, and suddenly she's staring into a white room with a disheveled Jeffrey standing beside the window, looking out. He turns and sees her and his eyes are impeccably green in the morning sunlight—

"_Skye_."

How is one supposed to say that they have decided to carry on living? Especially when they still feel like an iron weight is sitting on their chest and have bruises that will last for months and can't quite remember how to smile? Skye's heart drops, but when she looks up, Jeffrey's brilliant grin makes her forget almost everything else.

"Don't," she murmurs clumsily, when tears begin gathering in the corners of his eyes. "I was in the deep for a while. That's all."

...

Skye's rummaging through the highest shelf of their cupboard several months later, groping blindly around for the Christmas china. She is too lazy to fetch the fold-out stepstool, so she has to stretch up on her toes until her fingers make contact with the dusty paneling at the back. Her sensory neurons alert her of objects she cannot see:

Old rubber bands

Screwdriver

Candle wax

Cereal crumbs

Paperclips (she hisses in pain as she pricks her index finger on an exposed wire tip)

Broken metronome (Jeffrey's)

Calculator (hers, with extensive graphing capabilities and solar power)

Something soft. Satiny. A small sort of bag with—wait, what— What is that—

...

_(A/N): While I did quite a lot of research involving the nature of comas, most of the consciousness-is-an-ocean metaphor is there for purely artistic purposes. I'm not making any kind of a statement about injury or how people might handle it. If this is offensive to anyone, I apologize in advance._


	17. Chapter 17

...

He's standing by the asparagus, eyes downcast in a solemn examination of an overripe cluster of bananas. Skye shoves her way through the thicket of shoppers with her heart in her throat, smiling like a maniac, fist clenched around the blue satin pouch, and skids to a stop before him. A gray haired woman gives her a sour look and mutters something about youth and their inability to behave civilly indoors.

Jeffrey drops the bananas into his cart before glancing up, away, and back again, eyes widening. "Skye, what are you—"

She wrenches the ring from the pouch, holds it out, brandishes it like an archaeologist would a sacred artifact. It _is_ sacred, this little piece of metal, and she lifts it to the light so it gleams in the fluorescent brilliance.

Less charitable bystanders will call it a shout.

"Marry me!"

He goes so pale she can count every one of his freckles.

The grapefruit in his left hand plummets to the floor with a wet thump. He's gaping at her, swaying on the spot like a person at high altitude about to faint. Oh no—was this—this was the wrong decision. She should never have—she's so _stupid_, so stupid and exposed and hopeful standing there with an engagement ring that has been gathering dust for who knows how long and a whole audience of people gathered on all sides, pressing in like water.

Panic twists its icy grip around her abdomen and she lowers the hand with the ring, going crimson in the face. Oh, hell.

But then—

"I—yes! Yes."

_Oh._

Something pools in Skye's rib cage, electric and sweet. She stares at Jeffrey, dazed, barely aware that time has slowed to a dragging, sugary, honey thickness. There are bees in her ears. She is underwater. No, bees cannot survive underwater. That's wrong. The air has thickened. But she isn't afraid. She hadn't expected to be. She's astonished, however. Utterly.

"Sk—"

She launches herself at him with the force of a dozen African rhinos and kisses him with a dazzling ferocity bordering on feral. "Good choice," she says, when they part, a little breathless and ecstatic, "Because it wasn't a question."

Jeffrey just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Around them there is a smattering of applause and a "Nice one!" hollered from the vicinity of the onions. Then everyone trickles off to go about their business, leaving the pair alone among the produce.

"Here," says Jeffrey, taking the ring from her. "Hold out your hand." He slips it onto her finger and odd sparks flare in her stomach.

"I feel you should have something too," she murmurs. "To honor the occasion. So—" She looks around, casting about for—Ah. There they are. Grabbing two twist-ties from the dispenser, she shapes them into a makeshift ring and slides the finished product onto Jeffrey's finger. "There."

He's giving her one of _those_ looks, like Skye's the only thing he can see, like he wouldn't notice if the whole world burned to a crisp around his ears. "I love you."

If sunshine had green eyes and rumpled brown hair and an infinity of freckles—

"I love you, too," she replies and kneels to retrieve the bruised grapefruit. "Now, what shall we make for dinner?"

"How do you feel about stuffed green peppers?"

"Just the ticket."

They beam a little; their hands seek and find each other. They press the pads of their fingertips together, applying pressure to knuckles and joints before their fingers twine tightly and settle. Then off they bustle toward the check-out counter, because that's just their way. Because they really do have all the time in the world.

"All right?" asks Jeffrey.

"All right," says Skye. It is not a question at all.


	18. Chapter 18

_(A/N): I love the Gift of the Magi and sooner or later that fondness was bound to show up in my writing. Well, here it is. _

_..._

_..._

"It can't be more than two degrees outside," Skye protests, because Jane is snatching at her sleeve and pulling her into the dim corridor between apartments. "Catch our death," she mutters, but a smile is rounding her already cold cheeks.

"Oh, hush. Pretend we're ice princesses and this is our ideal environment."

Skye doesn't have time for ice princesses or other wild flights of fancy, but it _is _Christmas Eve, and the whole Penderwick clan (plus Alec) have congregated within the walls of her and Jeffrey's home, and everything smells of pine and mothballs and rosemary chicken, and all the jolly carols seem to have inoculated her with some amount of merriment.

They take the stairs two at a time.

The rooftop is frigid, but Batty and Rosalind are waiting with an unexpected stack of blankets and a single thermos of steaming liquid.

Everyone bundles up as best they can before plopping wordlessly down on the frost dusted brick, shoulders touching, giggling a bit when Jane's scarlet-feathered hairpiece falls prey to the wind.

"That cost twenty euros!" she complains, and then— "It was festive!"

The perfect anticipation between them is delicious. They look at each other, savoring what they know is about to ensue, before exploding into laughter. Breathless chuckles tumble through the air. Whenever it seems like they've finally settled, one repeats "It was festive" and sets everyone else off again.

"Well," says Skye, once she's regained enough breath to speak properly, "I suppose that was pretty serendipitous."

"Explain how destiny had a hand in this misfortune."

Skye reaches into her pocket, withdraws a small box. "Merry Christmas, Jane. I was going to wait until tomorrow but I think now is a better time." She hands it over and takes a sip of tea, eyes sparkling aberrantly.

Jane carefully unfolds the holly printed wrapping paper and lifts the lid.

A sharp inhale. "Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims," she intones, and no one misses the quaver in her voice.

"D'you like them?"

"Oh, Skye, they're—" Her throat bobs in a tight swallow, "Exquisite. How did you—"

"Sold my cathetometor."

Jane gapes at her. "You—but I—_what_?"

"Didn't need it anymore. Jeffrey kept saying it was only gathering dust, and he was right—"

"But _Skye_!" The exclamation is both tender and despondent. Jane digs in her own pocket for a moment then tosses a little package onto her sister's lap. "When I was in Budapest I got you a new lens filter for it…"

Skye's heart falls four stories—

"…And I used the money from my best calligraphy set to buy it."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed."

Astrophysicists, of course, don't get misty at such moments, and battle-hardened writers don't tear up at the drop of a hat either, so. Even though that's most assuredly not happening at this moment, for ten seconds let us nevertheless regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction – here, have a quiet gander at the stars.

"O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest," Batty recites after some time, with a strange little smile.

"Everywhere they are wisest," adds Rosalind, catching on. "They are the magi."

"Huh," Skye says after a moment, when the peculiar lump in her throat has subsided somewhat.

"Yes," says Jane, her lower lip quivering just slightly.

"Your best calligraphy set."

"_Your_ cathetometor."

They look at each other. A rueful sigh, a marveling gaze.

"Well," Skye murmurs briskly, "That's that, then. No use in getting upset over it." She looks around, sees her sisters' solemn faces. "Lie back. The constellations are so clear tonight."

They do.

"Maybe we'll get a glimpse of old Saint Nick," whispers Batty, loathe to break the stillness.

"Maybe so."

Laughter. Eyes bright like moonbeams. Mumbled merry Christmas's. And the driving December wind just can't seem to cut through the flare of warmth gleaming at Skye's sternum.

_Everywhere they are wisest. _

Especially on the snow swept roof of The Other Arundel Cottage; three dark heads and one blonde, nestled together like sparrows in a storm. In love and in luck and in hope and in happiness.

Flat on their backs.


	19. Chapter 19

_(A/N): This chapter has a soundtrack containing a whooping one song. Take thee to YouTube or iTunes: **A Sky Full of Stars by Coldplay**. Anyway. I kind of cried while writing this. My love for fictional characters will be my undoing. Also, I should let you know that I'll be taking a small break from posting to write more of my madness. I'm a hideous procrastinator so we'll see how that goes. Enjoy! Allons-y!_

_Oh and blackout poetry is actually a thing!? How did I not know this!? It fills my heart with thunder and stardust._

_..._

_..._

"Listen to this." Skye glances over at her bespectacled fiance to make sure he's paying attention before directing her eyes at page fourteen, paragraph two. "The irony of dying, falling, plummeting in Larissa's arms doesn't come to him until much, much later," she reads aloud, "but by then, it doesn't matter anymore because he's betrayed her, tumbled over the edge without her, and he isn't sure that he can be forgiven, isn't sure if he can ever come back properly, because he's jumped already, he's shattered into a million pieces, a million rough shards of stinging mirrors, and he needs to put himself back together but he has no idea how and Larissa's too far away to do it for him, and the laws of gravity don't work except for when they do."

"Jane?"

"Jane. An excerpt from _Love and Other Deaths._"

"Our dear Mr. Dupree is probably kicking himself now."

Skye laughs. "Live and learn."

"Indeed."

"Much as I try to avoid outbursts of romanticism, I'm impressed by her work."

"So am I." Jeffrey squints down at a sheet of a ink splotched paper, struggling to finish grading the monstrous stack of music theory homework from his adjunct teaching gig before nightfall. "Though she seems to have been born in the wrong era."

"Meaning?"

"Jane belongs in early 19th century Europe during the peak of the Romantic period. An escape from reality; an outpouring of liberalism and free thinking and dreams and revolution. Don't you think?"

"That or she would have a been a flapper," grumbles Skye.

Jeffrey grins to himself. "Yes, there she'd be at some party, gazing wistfully out the window while everyone else vigorously danced the Charleston."

"A regular Jane Gatsby." Shaking her head, Skye turns back to her laptop and skims several passages of an online chemistry journal.

"She tried to help me, you know. Back when I was still trying to find a way to," he breaks off, blushing so intensely even his hair seems to brighten, "tell you."

"How?"

"Blackout poetry."

"What?" Skye closes the tab and sets her macbook aside, curious. "I've never heard of it but it sounds slightly more bearable than free verse."

"You open a book, skim through the pages until you find a phrase you're looking for, then you smudge out all the words around it with permanent marker. It's very amorous," he chuckles, seeing Skye's expression. "Shall I demonstrate?"

He goes to the bookshelf, yanks _The Great Gatsby _out and begins flipping through it. "Since we were just discussing it," he says by way of explanation, and Skye doesn't protest. It's just a book and books can bought again, again and again and again, as many times as needed. And this is interesting. Too interesting to miss.

He uncaps a black marker and begins marking up a page, smiling to himself in that Jeffreyish way that makes Skye adore him rather fiercely.

After a few minutes he sits back, triumphant, and lays the book on her cluttered desk. The page is nearly completely black except for a few words shining up at her from a sea of permanent marker.

_Love._

_a whisper. a presence._

_that strange, secretive dance._

She bites her lip.

"So. Would this tactic have worked?"

"Oh, I think so." Skye looks intently at him. Leans forward just a bit. "I think you could have mimicked the mating patterns of the Black-breasted Fruit-hunter of Borneo and I would still have said yes."

Then she tugs the marker from Jeffrey's hand and searches the pages for something of her own to say. When she finds it she draws a thick ebony line through everything else until the remaining words scream up at her, white and incendiary. "Here."

Jeffrey reads it. When he's done he can only goggle at her with something that looks an awfully lot like awe.

"I made a poem," Skye says, with a breathless chuckle of realization, "_I_ made a poem." And whirls off to check her astronomy reports.

...

In the years to come, one day in particular will ceaselessly reoccur to Skye in star-burst fragments of memory.

It will go something like this:

She wakes up in the middle of the night, blinking up at Jeffrey, who's propped against the headboard staring at her. He's clutching one of her sleep-weakened hands and he looks rapturous, he looks ecstatic, he looks like he's just had the best week of his life and played Vivaldi for hours and witnessed a stellar explosion all at once, except that he's not doing anything, he's just lying here, his bare toes cold against the exposed soles of her feet, almost smiling in the soft glimmer of the bedside lamp.

"Get up," he murmurs, releasing her hand with a tender squeeze and hopping off the mattress. "We've got somewhere to go."

Of course Skye has no idea what _that_ means, so she peers blearily over at him, feeling rather grouchy and put out by lack of sleep.

"Wear something nice," he adds, fumbling about in his sock drawer.

After much deliberation, Skye settles on an elegant black dress that actually was her mother's once, and when Jeffrey sees it he gives her a bright little grin and pops his clarinet case into the trunk of their car and they get in the front seat together, blinking in the pre-dawn gloom.

"Where did you say we were going—?"

He turns the radio up and pulls out of the driveway, humming to himself, and Skye squints sidelong at her rumpled musician, wondering what this is all about.

…

They turn onto Stafford Street several hours later. Jeffrey says nothing as they sail past the two stone pillars and onto the long, winding drive framed with poplars.

…

Rounding the corner, the view opens up and Skye freezes, taking in a scene she's fairly certain she's hallucinating.

There in the blooming Arundel garden, that ridiculous thunderbolt man is wrapped in twinkly lights and sporting a lilac corsage. The hedge is impeccably pruned and rife with blossoms and even more twinkly lights, glowing warmly in the shadows the morning sunshine can't quite seem to reach. Two inexplicable lines of yellow crime tape are strung across an unlucky cluster of begonias and a deep purple carpet forms a path to a flowered arch upon a token patch of grass. There are a few rows of folding chairs and a small gathering of people milling about; Skye recognizes her sisters among them.

"What's this?"

"A murder scene," Jeffrey replies, twisting the keys in the ignition. He throws a mirthful glance at the crime tape. "The death of our single lives."

"You mean—" She gapes. Because the alter and Jeffrey and this and everything is drawing and building and swirling and her ears pop like they do at altitude and she's not—she's _not_—going to faint in the vast gravel expanse of Arundel's driveway at her—oh my _god_—own wedding. There is no saliva in her mouth. None. Words are woolly things.

Ben, Iantha, and her father are sitting in the front-most row of chairs, looking quite done up and happy. Mr. Penderwick's glasses are crooked just as they should be and his fingers are tangled in Iantha's, whose hair is still thick and auburn as ever. A quick glance to the right reveals Jane, Rosalind, and Batty, the trio of dark haired beauties. They're wearing dresses of the palest yellow, curls loose and down-flowing…

On their left stands Alec—he catches her eye and winks—and beside him are Tommy, Nick, and Cagney, looking very much matured, and, standing very closely together, Aunt Claire and Turron. Mrs. Tifton and Dexter Dupree—Skye heroically manages not to glare—stand opposite, looking more benign than they have in years. And, clad in a sweeping mauve number, is Churchie herself. The rush of affection Skye feels at the sight of her is nothing short of obscene.

Right. Well. This may very well be the biggest plot twist in history.

Knowing Skye would rather pour acid in her eyes than walk down the aisle alone like some blushing bride, Jeffrey strides around to her side of the car and takes her hand.

"This is our wedding," she breathes, wondering why all the oxygen in the world has suddenly deserted her. "This is _our_ wedding."

"Yes. Shall we? Unless," he looks nervously down at her, "you would rather… Not?"

Skye gives him a look that suggests he has sprouted wings and started polka dancing in the nude. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life," she declares, squeezing his hand back even as a warm pressure builds behind her eyes. Only then does she understand why, why they've gathered on this spot, the arch in that particular spot, the secret hedge passageway long overgrown but still very much alive in her heart and mind, only then does she understand the infinitesimal significance of declaring a lifelong bond to the very same person into which she experienced a dazzling collision of sorts on this very same ground.

"Well, then. Here we are again," she says, and Jeffrey's eyes snap like flashbulbs.

They walk down the aisle.

…

"Listen to me. I'll say this once: You are the chosen partner of my life, Jeffrey Tifton. When I met you, you ruined me for all other people, for good. I've spent more than half my life chasing after you, and I don't intend to stop until I'm good and dead. I love you. From the core of my cells to ends of the earth, I love you."

She says it right out loud, Skye Penderwick does. Never mind the people watching.

...

There's light everywhere, scalding, aortal brightness, a blinding spiral of energy perpetually spinning in on itself. Jeffrey tilts his head to meet her lips and they are kissing, but not because a single thing needs saying, no, because it's what two halves of a single soul simply _do._

…

When all's said and done; vows spoken and papers signed, Skye's heart does that funny little thing that makes her feel like crying and laughing and sighing and praying for mercy at the same time, and she swallows hard.

Jeffrey sidles up with a platter of Churchie's luscious gingerbread and why should _that_ do her in?

Numbers, she thinks, number and symbols and equations and Pi. Anything not to do with tender assertions or words or any woefully insufficient approximation of what she is feeling right now.

"I love you," Jeffrey mumbles thickly around a bite of gingerbread, "so intensely it's alarming." He tears his gaze away, ears a bit pink, and fumbles to put the tray down.

Beautiful, blinding Jeffrey.

Looking at him feels like a heart attack.

"Jeffrey."

The word is hers, and so she gasps it because it is all she can say at present. It is _please never stop being just as you are at this very moment, and I love you, even though don't say it often, even though I am hopelessly entangled in the language of logic and actualities and burdened with a razor-tongue and non-existent tact, I love you so much, oh God, I do._ It is _I'll never stop loving you until I cease to breathe and even once I'm ash and charred bone beneath the dirt I will still love you, only and always you, only and always and ever_ you.

"Yes?"

Skye drags him down by the hair and kisses him until an unanticipated rain shower splits the clouds and sends them all shrieking and laughing and sprinting for the house.

…

When our astrophysicist and musician return home the following week, two framed messages watch over them, a constant vigil over their four walls.

_Love. a whisper. a presence. that strange, secretive dance._

And

_I am alone. slow dancing to the cosmic puzzle. that is risk._

There they remain. Ink fading, paper turning yellow.


	20. Chapter 20

_(A/N): Sooooo hi. I've been having kind of a crisis with this fic and spent several weeks loathing it and nearly decided not to continue. Luckily I got past that and am plowing bravely (foolishly) on, but it might take me a little longer to post, given finals and the terrible lack of motivation I've been feeling. Sorry about the short chapter but it's a marvel I managed to write it in the first place. Bear with me, friends. Here's some Batty action for the trouble._

_..._

_..._

Being the youngest Penderwick daughter, Batty is given the honors of naming the Tifton-Penderwicks' first child.

She takes the job seriously. Goes to the library with her laptop and sifts through stacks of baby naming manuals, dictionaries in French, Italian, Latin, and Greek, decaying records of old New England villages and their townspeople, tries her hand at making up a few names of her own; none of which are very successful, and speaks names aloud for hours just to get a sense of them.

"Xena," she says over the rumble of the washing machine, where she's set up camp in Skye and Jeffrey's guest bedroom.

"Absolutely not."

"It means warrior princess."

"I know what it means. And what if the child is a boy?"

"Xen_o_."

"You're an idiot."

"You're the one who asked me to do the naming."

"Yes, and I'm already regretting it." Skye shifts on the sofa, one arm flung over her heavy lids. It's October, and the whole of New York is sweating. Well, not the dogs. The dogs lie limply in the shade provided by the benches in Central and Battery parks, panting and too exhausted to bark. But everyone else—from the business executive men and women in their suits and skirts to the skimpily clad students milling about in Greenwich Village to the tourists and retailers who pass among them—is awash in perspiration. The heat is record breaking for this time of year. Normally Skye would rather curl upon the couch in more of a bass clef shape, but now her limbs are thrown haphazardly about to avoid spontaneous combustion. It's miserably unpleasant.

"How about Griffin?" Batty shuffles into the sitting room with her curls sticking to her forehead. She's wearing a loose tee-shirt that reads _I break for animals_ in bold Arial font. Her shorts are frayed at the hem and marred with inexplicable paint spatters.

"Sounds like something out of a fantasy novel. No."

"Thought you'd say that." She flips a page of her book. "What about—"

"Can we not do this now?" Skye rolls onto her side, feeling swollen and feverish, and presses a palm to her temple. "I have an awful migraine and I feel somewhat seasick."

"We're on land," Batty points out.

"Hormones," Skye spits, and snaps her ginger gum with vigor. "It's like a permanent hangover without the party beforehand."

"Oh. What can I get you?"

"A head that doesn't feel like a nuclear bomb is going off inside it every few minutes."

"Some aspirin, then?"

"Can't have any. Doctor's orders."

"I see." Batty pauses for a moment before turning about and wandering off to the kitchen. After a bit of clanking from the vicinity of the kitchen, she returns, holding a glass tumbler of ice cubes. The ice is deposited into a clean dishcloth and applied to Skye's flushed forehead. The sudden chill relieves her discomfort like rainfall in a desiccated Pakistani desert and she leans into Batty's touch.

"Better?"

"Slightly."

"Good." Batty makes a small sound of satisfaction and turns the ceiling fan onto a higher setting.

"I never minded the heat, but I can't stand this," Skye mutters. "It feels apocalyptic. Every time I try to get some sleep all I do is dream about it. How the force of it will increase until we simultaneously burst into millions of atoms, a cloud of intermingled star-stuff, small enough to breathe in all at once. But," she laughs, as only astrophysicists can at these sort of jokes, "there will be no lungs to breathe our atoms in. Everyone will be gone. Burned to the ground."

"Terrifying," says Batty.

"Fascinating," Skye corrects.

"You always did like natural disasters."

Skye grins, the first flicker of merriment in over four hours. "Forest fires and earthquakes, avalanches and volcanoes. Tornadoes and tsunamis. It's all good. Better than good. It's _wonderful_. Raw destruction, raw power that can be measured, raw power that can be seen. It's wonderful," she repeats, and Batty calls her strange with the fondest look in her eyes.

"Should I be worried about you?"

"Not at all."

"Is this obsession—"

"Enthusiasm."

"Fine, enthusiasm—is this you or the hormones?"

Skye blinks up at Batty with sea glass eyes. "What do you think?"

Batty laughs; half rueful, half wondering. "I think you should come with a warning label."

"Maybe."

"You know how meteorologists measure damage with Fujita scale?"

"Of course."

"You're an F5, I think."

Skye lobs a melting chunk of ice in her sister's direction. It lands on Batty's forearm with a wet plop. "Shut up."

"Never."

They smirk and fall into companionable silence. Later, Skye falls asleep with the Indian summer heat radiating through the closed windows, radiating right into her very bones.

...

"Because of electricity and a brain that just wouldn't think like all the rest and magnetism and miracles and dark things made luminous and prophesying and dreaming and artistry's collision with science and progress and wild inventions that practically set the whole world ablaze. Because of this," Batty says, "the child will be named Tesla."

"After Nikola Tesla," she effervesces, "the great dreamer/inventor/mad scientist extraordinaire."

Skye and Jeffrey love it at once. Their child will be high-voltage, there is no question in that. A brightness, a brilliance, a radiance.

Yes, indeed.


	21. Chapter 21

Skye Penderwick feels just a tiny bit amused at the fact that her life has come to a point where she's clad in pajamas and holding a plush lion in one hand and a monkey in the other as she stands in the middle of her daughter's darkened upstairs room, the room which used to be the guest room/study until Tesla arrived seven years prior. As Skye palms the two choices, it hits her that parenthood has infused every facet of her life. The lines of the world are warped, because everywhere she looks, her gaze sooner or later lands on half-finished Lego sculptures, crayons scattered across drawing pads, hastily removed little sandals and sneakers, and a whole menagerie of stuffed toys. It's like a burning black hole in the shape of a small girl and her belongings, and anything else—books, television, newspapers, what have you—doesn't stand a chance.

"Which one do you want to bring tomorrow, Tesla? Your lion or one of your monkeys?"

The blonde haired girl shifts in bed and blinks up at her, outlined by the faint amber glow of the nightlight.

"Lucy always tells me to call that one a lemur," she says decidedly in a very six year old fashion.

Lucy is Tesla's four year old cousin, and despite being two years Tesla's junior, spends an inordinate amount of time studying encyclopedias and filling her head will all sorts of highly impressive facts. The only thing about her that reminds one of Jane is her abundance of brown curls and delicate stature. The rest—her desire for order and drive to memorize information is neither poetic, romantic, nor artistic.

There have been a few doctor's visits, because Lucy refuses to interact with anyone besides her parents and close extended family, bounces between lapses of extreme calm and extreme turbulence with no middle ground, and never quite seems to understand the nuances of social communication.

"She's an Aspie," Jane tells Skye over the phone several weeks earlier. She sounds both distraught and relieved.

"So were Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, and Thomas Jefferson," Skye fires back, unwilling to let her sister entertain any thoughts of inadequacy or despair.

"Yes, but—"

"Nothing," Skye finishes. "She'll be just fine. Lucy has a hell of a lot of talent, Jane, in areas far beyond her years. You should be proud. This isn't some kind of harmatia."

"Thank you, I'm just afraid I'll do her some sort of disservice, or—"

"Stop worrying. Parenthood is difficult, bottom line. Doesn't matter who your child is. I know you'll raise her right because I know how much you love her—"

There's a stifled sob on the other end of the line.

"—and that will make all the difference. Okay?"

"Okay," sniffs Jane.

"Tell Queen Lucy the Valiant I want her and her mother to come over this Tuesday. I have an anatomy coloring book I need her help with."

Jane laughs and the tightness in Skye's throat loosens. "The queen and her dutiful mamma shall be there."

"Wonderful." Skye glances over her shoulder at her own daughter, who's up to her knees in craft paper and glitter glue and looking rather guilty. "Gotta go. Tesla's covered in sequins again."

And that's that.

Now, as Skye stands staring at Tesla's small prone form, she feels a wash of affection at her daughter's open, accepting nature. It's all very Jeffrey.

"Oh, of course, a _lemur_ then—my mistake. You only have seven stuffed monkeys after all, it's impossible to tell the difference between each one."

"It's fine. I call it a monkey too sometimes, but don't tell Lucy. I know all the different names of them in the book she showed me—do you want to hear them all? We went through the primates and monkeys last week at Aunt Jane's house."

"I heard. You'll be ready for college soon with all the scientific terms you know."

Tesla giggles and buries her face in the pillow. "I'll take panthera leo," she mumbles into the cotton.

"What?"

"The lion."

"Alright."

"I'm feeling more liony right now, I guess."

"I guess you are." Skye leans over and kisses her on her cheek, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. Perhaps remembering babysitting Ben when he was still a baby and feeling compelled to perform the same gesture, much to her then repulsion (confusion).

"Night, Tesla. Daddy will be up in a minute."

"Is he composing?"

"Yes."

"Cool." The little girl rolls onto her side and studies Skye through squinted lids. "Can I hear it tomorrow?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes, doesn't it."

"We'll _see_." Skye laughs and slips from the room.

...

"Look, I drew a picture of Tess," chortles Booker. He's a five year old hybrid of Rosalind and Tommy, which is evident from the messy shock of russet hair, hazel eyes, and unusually wide smile, one that often appears too large for his face.

Skye kneels down to admire the technicolor scribble. "There's a definite likeness," she admits, eyes crinkling at her nephew's clumsy attempt at capturing Tesla's fair hair, green eyes, and arrangement of freckles.

"Thanks. I couldn't decide whether to use saffron or mustard for the hair." He brandishes two crayons, and Skye laughs.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Mommy said saffron."

"Rosy does tend to have an eye for color."

Booker gives a gleeful giggle and thrusts the drawing into Skye's hands. "Give it to Tess, 'kay?"

"Will do."

He tears off across the playground, sprinting faster than ought to be humanly possible. Skye watches him and doesn't bother to hide her face-splitting grin behind a hand.

...

"She's six years old, just let her be six," Jeffrey murmurs, as they sit shoulder to shoulder on his velvet padded piano bench watching their daughter build a rather inaccurate version of the Eiffel Tower from Legos.

"She has a right to know," Skye persists. "I won't have her crippled by reality. She needs to learn how to cope with life."

"But…" Jeffrey exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose with a careworn expression. "She might, you know, be afraid the same thing will happen to _her_ parents."

"And it might. Tomorrow isn't guaranteed to any of us. That's not a reason to keep her in the dark."

"Rosalind and Jane haven't told Booker or Lucy."

"I don't care. You can present an infinite number of excuses and none will dissuade me."

"Skye."

"What is so terrifying to you about the idea of telling her what happened to her grandmother?"

"It's just that she's never really had to think about death."

"Well, I had to at her age, didn't I?"

"Yes, and knowing how painful that was, wouldn't you rather protect her from it? For just a bit longer?"

"We're her parents. Our job is to raise a strong person, someone who can grieve and contemplate distressing truths without being taken out of commission."

"But—"

"What about you and Alec? She'll want to know about that someday."

"That's different. He isn't dead."

Skye concedes with a nod. "Yes, but it's not the happiest story."

"It doesn't involve death."

She snorts. "Death doesn't alarm me. It's the most natural thing in the world. Next to living, of course."

"Watching someone get wrenched from this world too soon doesn't seem at all natural to me," mutters Jeffrey. "Or maybe I'm just a sentimentalist."

"Don't be like that. You know what I mean. Death _per se_. Death, the governing entropic force of the universe. Death my own. Death anyone else's. Almost anyone else's."

She looks sidelong at him and he looks back, throat bobbing in a tight swallow. They lean together; kiss, and there's an undercurrent to it that feels desperate, raw, and unhinged. It makes Skye's gut constrict unhappily.

Tesla makes a little sound of embarrassment and they part, laughing awkwardly, and setting to the task of clearing the table of dishes.

...

"We'll tell her tomorrow," Jeffrey says later that night.

Skye rolls onto her side, mattress creaking beneath her weight, and gazes at him. "Yes?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"Of course—I—it's fine."

"Obviously not, considering the fight you put up earlier."

"I just—"

"I know. I know."

"She's so…"

"Young? Innocent? Untouched? Mm, yes. All of the above. But she'll be alright. She's our daughter."

"Her genetics won't make her strong, Skye."

"Her upbringing will."

He laughs. It sounds oddly sad. "You're quite smart."

"Did it really take you all this time to come to that conclusion?"

"Strong, too," Jeffrey adds, ignoring her jibe.

"You're not bad, yourself."

"No, I mean… There are things in this world that are considered strong; steel and titanium and alloy and diamond, but those things are transient, those things are not mine. There are things in this world that are considered strong, but those are smoke and veils and shadows and nothing more."

"What are you saying?"

"There are things in this world that are _considered_ strong. And then there is you."

...

_(A/N): One of my close friends was diagnosed with AS (Asperger's Syndrome) when he was seven, so all of the material about that comes from my experience with him and a bit more further research. I don't pretend to know what that's like personally. Thanks for all the kindness, lovelies._


End file.
